It bothers me that most of the Philosophers throughout history were wealthy men with the means to pursue a life of Philosophy. It seems to defy the heart of the issue. I realise of course that everyone is capable of suffering and the wealthy will obviously encounter their fair share - I mean it's entirely subjective and humans being what they are, are fairly adaptive. So one person living in poverty is going to suffer in their experience. However the wealthy will also suffer - perhaps it's suffering loneliness, or boredom - or whatever. The point is in each person's experience the suffering while quantitatively different will qualitatively be similar. An injury is still an injury, a broken heart is still a broken heart.
I've picked a stupid dichotomy because all the research about happiness points out that everything between abject poverty and what we'd call substantially wealthy register similar levels of happiness. I have the typical imaginary ranter (she changes form - at the moment she's a hip athiest who is quite vocal and well educated - it's entirely likely she's my muse which would totally figure - that mysterious figure supposed to quietly inspire you is abusing me - holy cow she's doing it even now!
Muse: Oh, so you're writing a blog and that makes you an artist?
Me: What?! No, I'm just saying that you're supposed to inspire me and you're abusing me.
Muse: Yeah well you're the one make gross over generalisations about how the suffering of the wealthy are essentially the same as those in poverty...
Me: Here we go.
Muse:... because we all know that not having clean water and and basic shelter IS EXACTLY THE SAME AS SOMEONE TURNING UP TO THE BALL FOR THE GOVERNOR IN THE EXACT SAME DRESS AS YOU!!!!
Me: Yeah well it would be quite humiliating if you were a man.
Muse: Oh right make a joke out of it - why don't you throw in some sort of gay slur.
Me: That's an example cross dressing, doesn't mean you're gay so essentially you're the one whose being the biggot.
Muse: We're talking about the suffering of the poor and the down trodden being the same as the wealthy. You don't know what you're talking about and you're putting on weight.
Me: Ok, you know what you're out of control..
Muse: OUT OF CONTROL! YOU HAVEN'T SEEN ANYTHIN...... OUT OF CONTROL? ARE YOU RETARDED?
Me: Hey! Steady now that's kind of out of line.
Muse: SHUT.UP. And what is this? Why are you even writing this. Why? Who is reading this?
Me: No one has to it's just creative...
Muse: Then keep a fricken' journal genius. Spewing your junk trash thoughts all over the internet.
Me: While that's a tautology it's a relevant good point.
Muse: Right so can we stop this nonsense then and go back to that quiet despair you were quietly working on?
Me: Can we please keep to the point? I was raising the whole thing about Philosophers pondering stuff and living in the lap of luxury while they did so. I just don't think it's fair. What about normal people like me.
Muse: You can't use the term 'normal' with reference to your self.
Me: You know what I mean.
Muse: Yeah but you're still essentially privileged, compared to the rest of the world.
Me: That's just crippling Western guilt brow beating me.
Muse: No. It's me making a substantial point.
Me: I helped out someone by mowing their radically overgrown lawn yesterday and then I sat through a film with horrific hay fever - it was embarrassing - sounded like I was crying.
Muse: Don't chat to me, I'm not interested. Least you could go to a film. Spose it was 3D
Me: Yeah it was - it was $25 to see and it was obviously post converted. There wasn't any 2D screenings of it.
Muse: What film?
Me: Thor.
Muse: You know there's people with no clean water to drink in the world, don't you?
Me: Yes. I know. That's why you're in my head.
Sigh. I should check and double check before I mention something. Ridiculous really, given that I haven't blogged in a while.
Anyway.
Here's a follow up to the Mark Bao story I posted the other day. Seems like certain things don't add up - which in light of everything, makes more sense. Hit on the following link to go to
"People Liking People" blogspot where they call out Bao's story.
I've not written anything of late - and in what now appears rather desperate, I've resorted to uploading entries based on old events. Yep - nothing cool happens to me anymore so I'm now drifting back over my past, looking wistfully at previous events. Smiling through glazed eyes as I recall them. Cept the whole time I was in Turkey I spent it with mounting concern that we were going to die. Retelling the past always sounds good, largely because you obviously survived it. Next thing you know I'll be standing at a checkout recounting events like an old person. Come to think of it I did just that at a reticulation shop - you know - for sprinklers and stuff I'm in the habit of destroying. I started telling thus story to the owner of the store when I suddenly realised he gave not a crap. I fled, muttering an apology for going on but stumbling along with the fresh revelation that I had become 'that guy'.
No - it's not true that nothing cool happens. I said that just so I could write a blog. Wait....
Friend on the phone. Hand the phone to Tan who’s cutting 7 month old baby C’s nails. Tan, distracted as she take the phone casually asks me to finish cutting’s C’s nails. There’s only one more to cut. Thumb nail. Jumped up on my second cup of coffee I take the baby and proceed to demonstrate my breath taking efficiency and ingenuity with the nail cutters. The rules of nail cutting:
1. Restrain baby
2. Distract baby
3. Don’t allow baby to see what you’re doing
But I’m a prodigy. I put him in the high chair where he is free to move, see and most importantly, participate. I take his little hand and deftly slip the cutting implement under the nail and snip. My brain is confused. Baby C’s brain is confused, he was watching as well. For moments forever sliced more finely upon repeat play back in my mind I look for the Houdini like slip of the hand. THe nail was clearly in the blades. I cut. I look and the nail is intact. But I felt the resistance of the cut. Something fell out onto the shiny white table of his high chair. It looked like nail. He begins to wail and then scream. There’s blood. My heart shrinks. I have cut my little baby’s thumb. It’s a tiny sliver. Tan’s hung up and standing next to me in a blur. She is completely non judgmental, quietly explaining the rules again. Meanwhile grief and guilt are wrestling on the floor of my mind and in the commotion they blame my wife. It’s her fault. She should never handed those baby nail cutters to a maniac. Moments later he’s fine, he doesn’t mind. I’m quietly haunted. I’m so careful, usually. We have a great time together. My wife and I have agreed that our baby should have talons, lest he end up with stumps.
This is another extract from the emails I sent to my sister back in 04 while I travelled through Turkey with my dear friend Darren, hence forth known as Daggs.
Dear C.
Okay. Some time after arriving in Fethiya Mark our guide offered to take us to the Barber for a shave. This struck me as weird. What’s wrong with the privacy of one’s own bathroom. Darren seemed confident about the whole thing so I mildly followed along.
Mark drops us off and says see you in forty minutes. The place was empty except for a couple of barbers and three of their friends drinking tea or something. So without much ceremony we’re seated and this chap starts lathering me up.
And proceeds to get WAY too intimate. Far to close to my personal space, right up in my face. I quietly explained that really, in Australia, we only let women do this sort of thing. Otherwise nice men, like your dear self, get smacked in the head. I laughed kindly as I said this. Turns out that none of them spoke English. He keeps working away and then pulls out a cut throat razor, and starts shaving.
He shaves, good.
And the he starts again.
After dousing me in this lemon smelling stuff, he finishes shaving and then gets out the scissors. Trim, trim, trim - happy, happy, happy until he shoves them up my nose. What the hell compelled him to do that? Up. My. Nose. Have you seen my nose? Is there something you haven’t told me. Is this dear sweet soul the first to confront me over this issue? I doubt it. I sat very still - saddened by the subtle violation. Perhaps he was laying bets with his mates about how he can stick scissors up the nose of Aussies.
Then he walks off.
And reappears with a blazing stick. Just in case you missed it: a longish stick that looked an awful lot like it was on fire. He then placed the back of his palm against my face and started hitting this blazing stick against my face just above his hand. And yes it was hot. A hot burning stick being smacked against my face.
The funny thing was they all started laughing when I said 'Holy Crap what is THAT?' As I said, none of them spoke a scrap of English until a taxi driver walked in and started answering our questions in English. Apparently the fire burns off ear hair. That’s refreshing. Who wants ear hair. But is there such a thing as a preventative for ear hair? Because I ain't got any.So why was he burning down my face? Another dare perchance. Reckless individual, I could have been anyone. Unfortunately for me I was a nobody from Oz.
Possibly to make some amends for potentially setting me on fire he then proceeded to massage my face, eye lids, neck, parts of my back - and it was only our first date. Having a man doing that who I can’t communicate with is just wrong on so many levels. Having done all of this, he shaved my face again. I would have had a face like a baby’s bottom had it not been set on fire.
A couple of years ago in the midst of my stint doing stand up comedy I talked about going to the zoo a young family, much like my own and all the associated merriment. I recall that at the time the zoo was going through some sort of financial difficulty and were lamenting this in a very public fashion. Having said this I may have dreamt it. In one particular section of my 'gig' I considered that if the zoo wanted to fix it's fiscal problems it should allow people to bring their dogs along. In fact it should become a more interactive experience. Take for example the smaller monkeys, the Tamarin Monkey.
Not a particularly beautiful creature but versatile, I think you’ll find. Why not have races, create little vests and racing caps and secure the tiny simians to the backs of Jack Russels or Silky Terriers with a spot of gaffer tape. In fact, why not dress them up as ninjas? Of course with that kind of breed you run the risk of the dogs turning on their riders and tearing them to piece. Not a spectacle for the younger ones but a revenue raiser none the less. It was met with deafening silence from the audience. In fact they looked horrified. I was, of course, joking – reflecting on the dangers of commercial enterprise compromising the integrity of innocent ventures like a trip to the zoo. Well, it seems someone somewhere didn’t have someone in their life to say, ‘No – that’s a really bad idea”. Or perhaps they didn't raise the idea in front of my particular audience. . I will concede however that perhaps the Kelpie breed and whatever that terrified monkey is were perhaps a better mix than I envisioned.
