Story

It was more than a year ago.
Over twelve months since that hot and humid day when she and three others had stood and watched her mothers' coffin lowered into the ground.
She stood, looking at the small grave marker with the number stamped on it, (there was no money for a headstone), and wondered what to do next. Every week she came, placed a small bunch of wild-flowers on the grave, and spoke to the earth, telling it her news. She did not believe her mother was there, that she heard, but it felt like the right thing to do. Better this than talking to herself in the street, she reasoned.
Now, though, there was a change. She had a decision to make.

The last twelve months had changed her in ways she had not expected. She was alone now, and felt the loneliness of someone who has had their only certainty in life taken away, but she also felt stronger, surer now than she had for many years. Looking at the almost level plot of earth before her, she did a quick mental calculation and came up with twenty-four years. Almost two and  half decades of uncertainty and hiding, until today. Yet even now a different uncertainty lingered.

She had been almost sixteen when her mother, driven to despair by her past, had succumbed to her fears and fled. A victim of abuse as a child, then married to a tyrant, she had finally broken away and found sanctuary with a gentle, patient man, who fathered the child now standing by a country grave. He had loved quietly, and supported the mother in so many ways, but he was no match for the terrors that haunted the woman's' mind, and eventually she ran. She had begged her daughter to go with her; "Just for a little while, 'til I'm set up, then you can go home", and Ruth had agreed. She loved her mother despite her faults, as all daughters do, and although she hated leaving her father, it was only for a little while.....

Every time they moved, Ruth made certain her father knew, and she also made sure her boyfriend knew. Her father swore he would always stay in touch, and her boyfriend promised undying love. She believed both of them. Her boyfriend finished High School and went to University. She wrote to him every time she moved, and he occasionally replied. Her father changed jobs, moved cities, even States, but still the contact remained.

Then, in one mad six month frenzy, they moved incessantly, as her mothers' fears became a mania, and she could not escape the notion that she was being chased. Ruth could not calm her, could not reassure and comfort her, as she had always been able to before. From Motel to Motel they ran, staying a week, then days, and finally overnight, until the money ran out, and they slept in shelters, railway stations, under bridges, in drainage pipes, or didn't sleep at all, but sat in the cold and the rain, until finally daylight came. Always they moved, shedding possessions, identities, addresses, and memories, until finally they were completely alone, and unknown.

 Exhausted, her mother had broken down, and was admitted to hospital. Ruth became her Guardian, and her reason for existence. Now Ruth could never leave.
Ruth wrote to the two men that had been the anchors to her life, but got no reply. Both had moved on, tried to stay in touch, no doubt, but in vain. She searched as best she could, but her time and resources were limited. and she needed to find a way to live.

Her mother was released into her care, and Ruth began the long task of devoting her life to caring for another. There would be no room for romance, or career, and barely any socialising, either. The town was small, rural, nondescript and conservative. No chance of escaping into the bright lights here. She rented a cottage for the two of them, and for eighteen years she  faithfully tended to her mothers' increasing agitation. She handled her escalating paranoia, managed her increasingly erratic behaviour, and dealt with her demons so often that the local medical authorities issued drugs to her almost without question, and quietly admired her for her competence and resilience.

As her mother entered her sixties, it became obvious that the years of agitation were taking their toll on the slight frame that held so much energy. Her sleep was fitful, her waking hours fraught with tension and demands, and she lost weight steadily. Eventually, she passed away, gripping her daughter's hand in the afternoon light, as distraught and unhappy in her dying moments as she had ever been in life. She died as she had lived, a victim of the cruelty of others and unable to come to terms with her life. The irony, thought Ruth, was that she had inflicted the same trauma and disruption on her daughter that she had hated others doing to her. Ruth knew that it was unintentional on her mother's part, but it rankled nonetheless.

Now, over a year after she had bade her mother that final good-bye, she stood here, asking her advice.

The letter had arrived some months after the funeral. Hand written, and post-marked just the day before. Her hand shook slightly as she realised who the writer was, and she trembled visibly by the time she had finished reading.

He started by offering sympathies to her on the death of her mother, explaining that he had seen the death notice in a regional paper.(Ruth had been obliged, by law, to publish the notice, and it was required to be under her mothers' birth name). He asked if she remembered him, and finally, asked if he could visit her some time. Remember? Of course she remembered!! She felt ill with shock and sudden fear.
She hesitated for weeks before replying, uncertain which decision to make. Finally she had replied that he could visit, for an afternoon, to see how things went. He wrote back and thanked her, asking when would be convenient. She decided on Sunday.
Ruth worked now. Financially, she needed to, and there were no other constraints on her time. She had found a job at the local Library, as a trainee Assistant, and revelled in the work. A lifetime of dealing with impossible demands meant that normal interaction with the public was terribly easy for her, but it was the children that gave her the joy. Never having the chance for marriage, or children meant that she unearthed a new joy in the delights of discovery, and the pride in small successes that children find every day, and her time in the Children's Corner of the Library were the highlight of her day.
Sunday was her day off, and she knew she could handle one afternoon with this almost stranger..

He arrived early, but she had anticipated this, and was ready. Answering the knock, she opened the door to see him standing well back, as if to lessen the impact of his presence. He seemed hesitant, and offered a half smile as he said "Hello, Ruth.", waiting for her response.
 "Hi", she said, remaining in the door frame, waiting.
He stepped forward, "It's good to see you", He leaned forward to kiss her, but she recoiled and said "I'm not ready for that", then smiled and said, "It's been a very long time".
"It has." he agreed, and nodded, understanding. "Sorry"
She nodded again, seriously, but reached and took his hand to lead him into the cottage.

She sat him at the table, made tea and coffee, and sat and talked. Then came lunch, then more tea and coffee, then dusk. He rose to go. "I have to work in the morning, and it's a four hour drive.." She thanked him for coming, and he said, "There's so much more we need to talk about, Ruth, Do you mind if I come back next week?"
"I think that would be ok," Ruth said quietly, "Same time?"

So the pattern was set. He would arrive Sunday morning, spend the day talking, remembering, gently touching hidden strands that were sometimes joyous, sometimes painful, and sometimes forgotten. They sat and talked, walked and talked, and sometimes sat in silence. He never again attempted any intimacy, and she never offered, except to hold his hand when he arrived, and as he left, enjoying the warm strength in his grasp.
This continued for weeks, until one day, as he entered the cottage, he asked if he might stay the night. "It's four hours driving each way," he explained. "Then I have to get up early for work. If I could sleep here, I could drive straight to work and it would be easier."
She considered for a while before agreeing. It was another step, and not of her choosing. Despite this, she agreed, "Ok. You can have the second bedroom. I'll make it up." She had long since moved into her mothers', larger room.
He readily agreed and went back to the car to retrieve the things he had brought in anticipation.

In the early hours of Monday morning, she heard his movements as he left the place and drove away. Later, entering the second bedroom, she found the bed made neatly, and the backpack containing his things gone.
So they moved into a new phase; he stayed Sunday night and left in the early hours of Monday. Their personal relationship moved much more slowly. There was so much uncharted territory between them after so many years. So much needed to be said, but could not be broached, for fear of raising accusations and defensive reactions. So much conversation was a tactful, delicate ballet, sensing the approach of high emotion, and backing away at the last moment. Sometimes she wanted to scream at him, or cry, but she held her emotions in check. She was still in control, still in charge.

One day, months after he began to sleep in the house, he reached across the table and took her hand. "Ruth, I want you to come and live with me." She looked at him in shock. "We've missed so many years" he continued, "I want to have the chance for us to have a proper relationship while we still can." He looked into her eyes intently. "I really want this."
She stared back, silently.
"I can't make that decision now." she said.
"I know. I just can't keep doing this for much longer," he said, "The driving is getting too much, and I really think you'd like it at my place..."
He released her hand, "Tell you what" he said, "Think about it for a couple of weeks and let me know".
He rose from the chair, "I better get to bed"
"Goodnight" she said, not moving.
"'Night" he replied, going to the bedroom.

So now she stood at the grave,two weeks later, and asked the earth the question she did not want to know the answer to....
After considering it all; her suffering, her devotion, deprivation, surrender, sacrifice and finally, freedom, she made the decision on her own. She turned and walked home in the afternoon light.

She sat down across the table from him. He had turned his chair sideways and had his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. His head was down, watching his index finger as it tilted and rolled a salt shaker on the table top. "I've decided to stay", she said.

He did not react,the index finger continued rolling, tilting.After a moment he looked up at her from under his brows; "You sure?" She nodded once, her lips set in a determined line. "I like the work, and this will give me a chance to get myself back together." He said nothing, but lowered his eyes to the table again, then deliberately stood the salt shaker back on its' base, and rose to his feet.

As he stood, she suddenly realised how old he had become, the lines around his mouth carved deeply, and she wondered at herself for never noticing before. He walked into the bedroom. She sat and watched the light change through the window, as the sun began to set.

He emerged after a time, carrying a back-pack from one hand. She rose and followed him to the door, stopping on the porch as he continued to the gate. He walked to the car and looked a her across its' roof. "You'll call me if you get stuck...need anything?" She nodded, "Ok."

When he turned on to the road from the driveway, she raised one hand, palm outwards, in a gesture of farewell, even though she knew he would not see it through the dusk. Watching until the car was gone from sight, she held her hand in the gesture.

After it was gone, she dropped her hand and remained on the porch, staring at the spot she had last seen the taillights. She stood a long time in the gathering gloom, but even then, she found she had to swallow hard several times before she could bring herself to turn and walk into the dark cottage.

Three weeks later, she sat at the table, unconsciously tilting and rolling the salt shaker, unaware of her mimicry. She sat in the dark, staring through the open door at the stars visible above the tree-line.
Initially, Ruth had felt a wild exultation as she celebrated her freedom. For the first time she was not needed by anyone! Nobody was calling her, clutching after her, requiring attention. Her time was her own, her space was hers to fill as she pleased, and she suddenly felt younger than her years.
 He had made several calls over the weeks, but she had ignored them, and had not answered his messages. Her time was here and she felt defiant. She would talk when she was good and ready!

Suddenly, the elation had faded, and loneliness overwhelmed her. In just a few days she had plunged from care-free and exhilarated to almost melancholy. She suddenly recalled that she had not held his hand as he left that last time. The memory of that strong, reassuring grip came to her mind, and she inhaled sharply.

Had she been mistaken in thinking that he was another who was going to demand her time, her energy? She suddenly felt the need to hear his voice, to ask him. Impulsively she grabbed for the telephone and shakily found his number. As it started to ring she glanced at the time. "My God! Three a.m.!!", but before she could hang up, he answered. "Hello? Yes?" his voice was thick with sleep, but urgent, concerned, "Hello?, Who's this?"

"It's me", she said, surprised at the tremor in her voice. "Sorry to wake you..."
"Ruth! Hi, what's wrong?"
She took a breath. This was harder than she had imagined. "Remember you said to call you if I was stuck?"
He thought a moment, "Yes, of course. Why, what's wrong?"
Again she breathed deeply.
"It's just that...." She trailed off, then tried again, "I don't know..."
She suddenly sobbed, and suddenly she was crying into the phone.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I don't know what to do! I need you...I need you to....to come and get me"
Come and get me, Dad"

His response was immediate, "I'm on my way."

SCENE

She sat down across the table from him. He had turned his chair sideways and had his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. His head was down, watching his index finger as it tilted and rolled a salt shaker on the table top. "I've decided to stay", she said.

He did not react,the index finger continued rolling, tilting.After a moment he looked up at her from under his brows; "You sure?" She nodded once, her lips set in a determined line. "I like the work, and this will give me a chance to get myself back together." He said nothing, but lowered his eyes to the table again, then deliberately stood the salt shaker back on its' base, and rose to his feet.

As he stood, she suddenly realised how old he had become, the lines around his mouth carved deeply, and she wondered at herself for never noticing before. He walked into the bedroom. She sat and watched the light change through the window, as the sun began to set.

He emerged after a time, carrying a back-pack from one hand. She rose and followed him to the door, stopping on the porch as he continued to the gate. He walked to the car and looked a her across its' roof. "You'll call me if you get stuck...need anything?" She nodded, "Ok."

When he turned on to the road from the driveway, she raised one hand, palm outwards, in a gesture of farewell, even though she knew he would not see it through the dusk. Watching until the car was gone from sight, she held her hand in the gesture.

After it was gone, she dropped her hand and remained on the porch, staring at the spot she had last seen the taillights. She stood a long time in the gatherng gloom, but even then, she found she had to swallow hard several times before she could bring herself to turn and walk into the dark cottage.

Holding a Place, a Time.

If you asked me, I could tell you the exact time and place that the memory snapped into my consciousness. Often, memories are brought back by a sound, a song, or a smell, or even seeing a long-forgotten object. Then the recollection sneaks into your mind and you are gently brought back to an earlier self, with the associated surroundings and events revealing themselves once more.
That was not this memory.

Perhaps it was because it wasn't a sound, nor a smell that worked its magic. It was a song and a sensation. As I said, I could tell you exactly what I was doing, and where I was, but it would mean nothing to you, and it bears no relation to the experience, but it hit so hard that it has imprinted that moment of time on my mind as clearly as the memory itself has done.

Listening to John Mellencamp singing "Ain't That America", was enjoyable, but then I drove around the corner and the sun suddenly burned hard on my right arm, stronger than it should for an Autumn day. The prickling and heat, the sudden warmth of hot air in my nostrils, clear blue sky and a feeling of rushing motion in my head, and SNAP!!, it was there....

"...Ain't that America,
You and me,
Ain't that America,
Land of the free..."

The sudden jolting taste of smoke from the first drag of a Marlboro, with a future of endless possibility running through my head....a sky of Western Queensland hot blue, and a swell of surging optimism building in my chest till I felt I could burst...yet I didn't move.
Just sat, and listened, and savoured this feeling of the invincibility of youth.
We could conquer the impossible, and we would....and nothing could stop us.
All we needed was the chance, the opportunity, the means to go somewhere that would recognise our potential, and give us access to the tools we needed to get the job done so we could turn the world on its' head through our energy and power alone...

And then I drove into shade, into shadows, and the shadows that are my memories fled into the darkness of the trees beside the road.

I like to think they wait in the shade, restlessly. Waiting for the right combination, for the key to fit the lock in my brain so precisely that they can make the jump from the atmosphere back to my consciousness, back to remind me of a time when I was so alive, I knew I could grasp the stars and show them to the World.

My View On The Executions.

I have kept relatively quiet on the debate regarding the convicted drug smugglers and their execution, which took place just over 12 hours before I write this.
I am going to offend some people here, but be assured, I will not resort to vitriol and abuse as so many from both sides of the argument have done. I will also be making my personal view very clear.
One thing is certain throughout this saga, and that is that Australia and Indonesia are two very different cultures, and they are becoming less similar as time goes on.

We in Australia have been subject to a long and very public debate over the sentencing and eventual execution of two members of a nine-strong drug smuggling group known as the "Bali Nine". The majority were given prison sentences for attempting to smuggle heroin, with three being sentenced to death. One later had his death sentence overturned, but the final two had their sentences upheld, as they were deemed by the authorities to be ring-leaders in the plan. This is important.

The Australian media has made a big show about them being "convicted drug smugglers", which they are, but they are convicted HEROIN smugglers, and organisers and planners of the operation. Yes, there are bigger fish out there, but they caught these two. The Australian media has also pushed the families of these two men into the spotlight and made reference to their rehabilitation and conversion to religion, with one being ordained as a priest, and the other becoming an artist. If I were in prison, under a death sentence, with regular visits from good Christian folks talking about salvation, I would probably be inclined to find God too.The point has been made by many others that it is unlikely that either one would have reformed had they not been caught.

I am sorry that they had to die. I am sorry that their families have to go through this trauma, but when has anyone raised the point that THEY should be the ones feeling sorry for their families? If they had not broken Indonesian law, then their families would have been spared this pain. I find it hard to blame anyone except the perpetrators of the crime for the damage the crime has done.

Speaking of damage, I hear that a Human Rights lawyer is looking at Indonesia being a signatory to an international agreement on the use of the death penalty. He claims that the agreement states that the death penalty will only be used for the worst of crimes. That, he says, is murder, not drug smuggling.
My response is that they were smuggling Heroin, and I have heard so many times that heroin will kill you. Not "might" kill you. Will.
To knowingly and illegally smuggle a drug which you know will kill the people that are going to use it, that, to me, is murder.

Indonesia has ignored Australia's pleas for mercy to be shown to these two men, and has executed them. Australia is upset and is withdrawing it's Ambassador, and suspending Ministerial ties.
May I ask, if we find the Death Penalty so abhorrent, why haven't we taken this action before? After all, Indonesia has executed dozens of drug smugglers over the years, from Thai nationals, to Filipinos, to Indonesians themselves, and recently a Dutch national. Why didn't we yell and scream then? Are Australian lives worth more than another nations? Or is it because there was a media focus and some personal points to be won by politicians and human rights groups?

I heard a point raised by someone on the radio today, saying that a terrorist received four years jail in Indonesia, and a murderer, five years. They couldn't understand why two drug smugglers who had reformed, were to be executed. I don't understand that logic either. But I am not expected to. I am not Indonesian. I do not face the problems that Indonesians face in their society. I am not  in a position to judge another country, another culture. There are claims that the judge asked for money to reduce the death sentence to life in prison. We are now claiming that this is corruption and it should be investigated. Why? Had the money been paid, and the men given life behind bars, would we now be screaming "Corruption", and demanding they be executed? The judge didn't say "I will sentence them to death unless you pay" (allegedly), He said "I am going to sentence them to death. If you give me some money I will be able to procure a lesser sentence".This is speculation, of course, but assuming the legal system is corrupt, and that this did in fact take place, can I remind you all that their guilt has never been questioned, only the severity of the sentence. They are still smugglers of one of the worst addictive drugs known to man. If Indonesia thinks that drug smuggling is worse than murder, then we better make damn sure we don't smuggle drugs through Indonesia.... or is that not obvious enough?
Perhaps murderers and terrorists pose a lesser threat to their societies than drug traders, hence the hard-line. I don't know, but I do know that it is none of my business how their system works, unless I choose to break their laws.

Hypothetical scenario. An Indonesian national is passing through Australia, and murders a young person in a hotel room, and is caught and convicted. They are sentenced to life in prison under Australian law. No parole is allowed until fifteen years have been served.
The people and government of Indonesia are appalled and demand that Australia extradites the criminal to Indonesia to serve the sentence there. What would we do? We'd say "Go to Hell!! They committed the crime here, they'll serve the sentence here. If we send them home, you'll have them out of jail in five years!! That is not a fit punishment!!"
Guess what, folks....That's what Indonesia just said to us.

Indonesia is an independent, sovereign nation. They have a social system with it's own set of unique problems. They have a legal system which, corrupt or not, is seen to enforce the laws of the country. We do not understand Indonesian culture, a mixed culture with ten times Australia's population and poverty levels we cannot imagine. They do things differently.
We expect them to respect our laws and customs when they visit our shores.
Why are we so arrogant that we do not respect theirs?

WARNING!! This may offend some Hipsters and Try-Hards...

Another year bites the dust.....but New Year Resolutions come on New Years Day.
I will give my usual Resolution; "I will try to be a better person". Failed miserably every year so far, but I keep on trying.....
No, these are not Resolutions, they are a list of things that I would like to see society address in 2015.
They are not on the scale of World Poverty, or Kim Kardashians' backside.... but they are pretty big in MY world, and it's my Blog, and I'll blog if I want to...

Cars:
Any person requesting a personalised number-plate that says the NAME or MODEL of their car, should immediately be fined, then refused. If it is later found that they have secretly snuck it onto their car, they should be fined again. The plates should NOT be confiscated, they should just be fined every time they drive the car on public roads.
If you are wealthy enough to buy plates that say "BMW M5" (for example), after you have already paid a squillion bucks for a car that has SEVERAL badges saying "BMW M5", then you can not only afford to be fined, you are also too stupid to be allowed on the road without being fined.
If, for instance, you are the proud owner of a Ferrari F50, (still the meanest looking Ferrari, in my uneducated opinion), then you want to be admired by people who appreciate your taste, i.e. other Ferrari aficionados. Point is, they already KNOW you drive an F50, so why tell them again?
As for the rest of the public, they don't know and don't care about your number plate, all they see is an old man in a flash car.....sorry, did I say that out loud??
On the other hand, if you own a 1926 Oldsmobile, I can see no harm in having a plate that reads "26 OLDS", because they didn't put that information on cars back then.
One more thing, it's a bit embarrassing to spend a lot of money on your "RNGE RVR" number plates, only to have your investments go flat and having to put them on your 10 year old Honda Civic after you are bankrupt...

Also, any car sound system sold, must be independently valued to ensure that it does not cost more than the car it goes into. Too many 1992 Toyota Corollas are driving around with sub-woofers that are worth more than the car itself. Frankly I am sick of seeing some crappy bloody shit-box bouncing along under the motive power of a bass system that requires a coal-fired power station to run it, while the cars' engine is flat out running the headlights.

Tattoos;
All tattoos should pass a validity test....lost someone to cancer? survived it? Had a life-changing experience? Been to war? or Bali? Fair enough.
Putting double entwined rattlesnakes facing each other around your bicep, just because you think it looks cool....that's ok too, ....if you're The Rock. ...If you are a 19 year old scrawny pierced-in-too-many-places, unemployed, school drop-out....well....it just looks stupid.

By the way...."Such is Life" doesn't mean anything unless you've lived a life....

Politicians;
I know people from all six sides of politics, I even like some of them. Many of them vote (or pretend to), and some can even talk about politics in a rational manner....occasionally.
The common factor among them all is they all vote for people that they KNOW are lying to them.
So: all politicians promises must be binding. If a politician makes a promise during an election campaign, but can't deliver on it once elected, he should lose his job. If I told my employer that I could do a particular aspect of a job, but couldn't deliver, how long would I last?? If a politician can't deliver, sack him and give the bloke who came second a go.....reckon we'd see a reduction in ridiculous promises? Even the political parties would make sure the candidates didn't step out of line....after all, it could mean losing power if some idiot said he was going to do something that they knew was impossible.

T-Shirts;
No T-Shirt should be sold to any individual unless they can identify the image depicted on it and explain its significance. Example: Che Guevara was a Communist. He would have confiscated your iPad for the good of the Revolution. He would have been appalled to see his face used to sell merchandise that made a lot of money for a lot of capitalists. He would have hated your materialistic lifestyle and shallow values. He would also have probably hit on your girlfriend. Even if you are a lesbian, he probably would have still hit on your girlfriend. You probably wouldn't have liked him.

"Deus Ex Machina" makes a great T-shirt. It is the brand name of a custom motorbike company, which is pretty cool. It is also a Latin phrase meaning "God from the Machine", and it originates from theatrical productions where an impossible plot device is used to get the story out of a dead end. The wardrobe in C.S. Lewis' "The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe" is an example of this. It does something impossible in order to get you from one world to another. So unless you actually OWN a Deus Ex Machina Bike,  you are probably just telling the world you believe in impossibly smart furniture.

Also, There should be a ban on people wearing T-Shirts from concerts that happened before they were born. I can understand someone wearing a Rolling Stones T-Shirt, although they should be required to prove they know who they are, but I object to a 19 year old college kid sporting a Rolling Stones "California Concert  June 1975" shirt. You weren't there!! You couldn't have even been conceived there!! You don't even know if the Stones actually played a show in California in 1975!! Your entire knowledge of the Stones probably ends with the fact that Jagger is in that cool song by Maroon 5, God Help Us.

Telephones;
Yes, that's right, telephones. Not phones, not devices, Telephones.
I'll make this quick. Telephones used to be stationary. They even had their own invention to sit on, called the telephone table. Every house had one. That's all it was used for, to hold the telephone and a Telephone Directory. They were simple, innocent things that only had one purpose...to make and receive telephone calls. Here is my problem. You could sit and wait for ages for some government department or big business to tell you that your request has been denied, and then you could pound the crap out of that hand-piece in frustration, (probably on the telephone table), and cause it no harm at all. Today, one slip of your wonderful, multi-purpose, EXPENSIVE, "Device".....instant death.......


FINALLY;
Facebook;
Facebook needs a "Dislike" button. Actually, I personally believe that Facebook needs a "Oh For Gods Sake, You Have Got To Be Bloody Joking" Button, but I think I have a better chance of getting a "Dislike" button.
You see, Facebook is conning us for the sake of the advertisers. If we don't like something, we can't say so unless we actually write a comment. So our criticisms are lost in the various sycophantic praises and religious solicitations that make up most comments. When the good folks at Facebook sell little ads on your home page, they can say "Look how many "LIKES" this post got" or "Look how many comments this guy gets", without having to let on how many people think you're a weasel with warped and twisted views. We need a "Dislike" button to ensure accuracy in statistics, if nothing else.


Well, these are a few things I would like to see cleared up next year. Won't happen, I know, and nobody really cares, but if I have made you think a bit, or smile a little, then I'm glad.

Love to you all, and may the next twelve months be kind.....

"Like" and "Share", if you care.....coz I don't...

Ahhh Facebook....
Instant gratification for those who don't need to work for it!
Anyone that wants to be "liked" (whether genuinely, or by reflex), or who wants to "share" the coolness of being part of the "in-crowd", can simply go to Facebook.
It is the instant panacea for our time...or at least till the next wave of social media overwhelms it.

Do not mistake me, I understand Facebook very well, and can see its' attraction. In a world of instant gratification and tiny attention spans, where it is essential to not only be a part of the game, but also AHEAD of the game, if not actually MAKING the game, (whatever the Hell "the game" is...), then Facebook can be an essential tool, especially when it comes to playing the social ladder game among your peer group. So, Yes, Facebook is the new essential in the world of our youth.

I do have a problem with some of the messages that it is disseminating amongst our gullible, and (let's face it), worldly naive youth. Oh, they may tell you they know more about the drug/sex/music/underground/gangsta/fashion/social scenes than we could ever know, because they are plugged in to a world- encompassing digital network that feeds a constant stream of information to their hand-held device/platform that is constantly updated and linked to more distasteful and possibly illegal sites than you as a parent could possibly understand, let alone control, but I question whether they could REALLY tell good guys from bad guys. The reasons I question are these;

Young people these days truly are smarter about many things than we could ever be. They know more about pirate web-sites, under-age drinking, parties and drugs than we did at their age. They are savvy when it comes to technology, how to hook-up, break-up, set-up and be smart. This generation sees technology as a part of themselves...those born prior to 1970 always regarded it as a tool. In much the same way, I regarded my car as an essential, a necessary part of life. To my parents it was a tool, an extension of their lives, and was treated accordingly.We lived to drive and explore, they drove because they had to, nothing more.

Embracing this new technology (Facebook/ Instagram/ Snapchat etc) , should therefore be a natural, if somewhat uncomfortable, and rapid progression along the road of generational change, but something concerns me about this wonderful means of spreading ideas. It's about caring. How much do we care? We say we care for the hungry, the homeless, the lost, the abused, yet when push comes to shove, how much do we care? How much do our youth, cushioned behind a keyboard, a screen, a wall of data, and a feeling of self-gratification, really care about each other?? Why do we need to bolster our youth's self-confidence, by telling them how good they are?

Which brings me to the reason I am writing this....

I have noticed that one of the recurring themes posted by various supposedly "genuine" sites on Facebook, is that of the "It doesn't matter what society thinks of you, as long as you are true to yourself, that's all that matters", or to put it another way "I don't care what you think of me, if I am happy with who I am, your opinion means nothing"

Now I realise that these are intended to build self-esteem and help people feel confident about who they are, because many among our youth are unsure and need help in this area. Rightly so, we should always help our children believe in themselves. Unfortunately, there is a downside.

Recently I employed a young man who was in need of work, and who had basically painted himself into a corner to the point where he had to get a job, or else. I needed someone to help me urgently because of my health, and I saw it as a great opportunity to give someone a break, a chance to give someone the opportunity to make a fresh start, just as one individual had given me the chance I needed many years ago. Here was my chance to "pay it forward", if you like.

He worked out pretty well, despite a few hiccups, and I thought it was going well, until about two and a half weeks in, when he said he was leaving. I was disappointed, but philosophical, you can't win every time, but on the last day, he dropped everything and left me half way through the day...basically, he bailed on me.

The next day, he rang looking for his pay, and I, feeling miffed, told him to wait till pay day.
The end result was harassing phone calls, abusive text messages and finally him confronting me at my home, kicking in my front gate, entering my yard, bashing on my front door, repeatedly head-butting my glass sliding doors, coming into my lounge room, threatening me, and leaving with threats to return for his money.

When the police arrested and interviewed him, he was quite insistent that his actions were completely justified, because he felt that he should be able to do whatever was necessary to get the money he was owed, despite the fact that the NEXT DAY was pay day. He wanted his money TODAY.
He was sure that if he felt like behaving in that way, then he was entirely justified, and it did not matter what I thought, or felt.

If we continue to foster a mind-set where instant gratification is the paramount goal of our society, and where violent and anti-social behaviour can be justified by the mantra of "This is who I am, and it doesn't matter what you think", then we can expect a generational trend toward not only shorter attention spans and greater need for self-fulfillment, but also a shorter fuse on the temper of those who do not want to wait for rewards, and a greater propensity for violence on the part of those who do not care about the well-being of those around them.

As with all things, a balance is required, but unfortunately the easy option is not self- control, nor patience.....

Charity...

How quickly did the Ice-Bucket Challenge disappear from our consciousness? A worthy cause, with an interesting gimmick, that also ensured excellent publicity, and yet is gone in a flash.

Questions over the validity of these kinds of campaigns can spell the death of the most noble cause, with a rumour or two about where the funds are going, (or if they are going anywhere at all), enough to destroy public support in an instant. Often these rumours are justified, sometimes they are baseless, but the damage is always done, and the cause is crippled, for better or worse.

Of course there are many organisations whose fund-raising campaigns are so long-standing that they are by-words in our vocabulary. The Red Shield Appeal,  Red Cross Week. Legacy.
All of these charity groups have excellent reputations and do amazing work with the funds they collect.
It is not so well known that each of these organisations has certain problems with their charities, and they must overcome these in order to maintain their reputation in society.

I have no intention of trying to discredit these charities, nor do I mean to imply that they are alone in not always doing what is best. They are merely examples of what occurs in any organisation that we, the public, entrust with our money to do good on our behalf.

The Red Shield Appeal raises funds for people in need and to support orphanages and shelters...and it has also paid the wages of corrupt, immoral people who have abused children, or covered up the actions of others who have abused.

The Red Cross is a venerable and massive organisation, recognised world-wide, with a reputation for appearing in the world's most troubled spots and administering aid rapidly and impartially. They also have a massive administrative infrastructure and salaried bureaucracy which eats up millions of dollars every year.

Legacy is the charity arm of the Australian RSL, devoted to helping the widows and families of soldiers killed or affected by conflict. They do great work. The RSL Clubs that generate millions through poker machine revenue and membership fees do not contribute ONE CENT to Legacy. All of Legacy's funds are raised by the sale of badges and pins to the public, and by donations from the public. All revenue from RSL Cubs goes back to the clubs.

As I said, I do not wish to crucify these few examples, but I want to use them to illustrate that there is no perfect system of charity, they are all flawed in some way, and we as contributors to them, should be aware of their flaws and decide if we can accept them before we donate.

Speaking as one who has recently required a certain amount of charity from those around me, I think the closest we may come to proper, uncorrupted charity, is what I saw happen to me.
Somebody saw that I needed some help, they looked at what was in their power to do, reached out, gave it to me, and would only accept my thanks.
I can think of several who have done this for me, each in their own way, and did it without prompting. No tax deductibility, no publicity, no recognition. True Charity.

Thanks.