Masai Warriors

A group of Masai warriors just ran the London marathon carrying massive leather shields, staffs and shoes made of old tires. I just ran 9 km in New Balance runners and Nike shorts and I'm stuffed.

Yesterday I was thinking about dumb people.

Given that these people exist, and seem to make up a good proportion of the world's population, how can we deal with them?

Here's my advice. You have to accept that they exist. Don't get disappointed every time you meet one in the street, see one on the news, or drive past one bashing another in the face in front of a pub you'd never go into. They are there, and they always will be.

Accept that you can't change all of these people. You probably can't even change more than one or two. People change incrementally, over many many years, and not much.

It is important for smart people and principled people to recognise how many dumb and unprincipled people there are running things: governments, companies, local sports clubs, families etc etc. It is important because smart and principled people need to start running things too, instead of just sitting around writing blogs, browsing new cafes and bars, and pondering things. Ok?

Middle-class guilt

Middle-class guilt. Doesn't last long.

America's relations with Iran. Probably the biggest fuckup in American foreign policy. It does defy belief that such a seemingly successful nation could produce such criminally incompetent or (if you take the less benevolent view) machiavellian leadership.

Chinese martial arts films and calligraphy. I just watched Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. The aesthetics are stunning (not as beautiful as Hero).

Giving expert testimony. Must make you feel really smart.

Patriotic Idiots

Flags. I heard an American (who has taken out Australian citizenship) on the radio today. He was tremendously disappointed that Australians don't fly the flag enough. He thought it showed that Australians aren't proud to be Australian.

Listen idiot. Most Australians are smart enough to know that displaying a piece of cloth with a pattern on it doesn't make you a good citizen. For example:




Most Australians realise that being a good Ozzie means being reasonable, unpretentious and giving a fair go for all. Or something like that.

Any twat can fly a flag.

Work

Suits. The most classy dress for a man, providing that 1. you don't have to wear one; 2. it's not 35 degrees.

Photoshop. Can show you worlds of imagination (Jodie's photo...).


Gypsy punk rock. I haven't heard it yet, but i'm excited.

Steamed flounder with ginger and lemongrass at Viet Rose on Brunswick St. Heaven, especially the bit of flesh located right about where the fish's cheek would be if it had cheeks...

Prodigy

Gabriella Cilmi. Sixteen years old and sings with the raw and gutsy voice of a woman who has seen her share of bleary-eyed mornings (ie. Amy Winehouse). Great stuff. Lets hope she doesn't get snared into singing boring pop (her Myspace).

I Am Legend. Even if you have no expectations, and come to it wanting only action and special effects, you'll be disappointed. It's boring. The action is repetitive. They skimped on the special effects and it shows.

Kevin Rudd. Cowardly backdown on carers payments. Very disappointing that he caved in. Finally, the halo falls off and reveals his weakness. Sad really.

Ties. Too expensive, but a nice one is nice enough that you forget how completely useless a clothing accessory it is, and how similar it is to a noose.

Holy Walls

Stone can move us. It's heaviness stands for the burden we feel history does or should impose upon us. The cracks make us feel mortal. They remind us we are doomed. It is with a giddy solemnity that we approach such stones and lay our hands on their cool surfaces. Stone runs deep.

The holy city has a wall. The people live around it, on top of it, absorbing its deep, silent breathing.

This wall is idolized. We come here to feel like ants, a whole tribe of us. We revel in how big it is, and how much we don't understand.

The holy city is riddled, divided, supported and protected by walls. Walls which spark our imagination, playing on passion and fear. Wrapped in a blanket of stone, we still can't sleep. Instead, some pray. Others don't.

The Most Beautiful Place In The World

The Mediterranean.

The colour of blood in a vein. Deep below. Quiet above. Serene.

... but not always.


Now lashing, now violent. But still - always - renders you without speech, quiet, and reflective. The waves batter the ancient cobblestones and throw spray up from the rocks, and it drifts in a mist past your face bringing the smell of salt and onshore winds.

When the sun is rising, you feel young. When it beats down from above, you are blinded by its whiteness, by its sharp rendering of buildings in crisp colours. The air feels like it would heal you inside.


Looking down through a fence of wood and wire, stepping over blackberry and grape vines and signs of 'Privato', crunching the dry gravel path, you are exulted. It's the heavy beat of your heart and the sun refracting in the beads of sweat on your forehead that have done it.


You are pulled ever upwards by the smell of pine needles. Beneath a tree on a crumbling cliff, cheese and bread is amazing. Time passes. An old man with a walking stick goes by. You nod. An hour later he comes back. He nods and smiles.


You start to think about coffee, the type you drink standing up at the bar in a cobbled square on a hilltop.



When the sun begins to set, the villages begin to sink into the earth, and the sea illuminates in sparkles.



Up in the hills there are hidden places.



It feels like Italy. It feels like it should be black and white.



This is a place where people can live and die.