It’s hard to tread water when Hell has an undertow.

I’ve got nothing to write about right now. It’s not that there’s nothing to write about. I’ve hardly exhausted the world’s supply of topics in four and a half years. I probably exhausted my supply of topics several years back, but I guess I learned a thing or two from WaterWise in Standard Three and Four about treading water. It’s not that nothing’s happening around the globe, because there’s always something going on. The problem is that I know what’s going on and I don’t have the wherewithal to elucidate anything poignant on the subject (wait, that’s what this project is about???? -ed).

I just watched the Vice News Tonight Charlottesville special and it’s sapped at me. It’s horrifying, brutal and as one speaker so adroitly calls it, appalling. To think that this rhetoric has resurfaced in 2017 when we should instead all have robot butlers and makerbots. Watching the linked video filled me with an unfamiliar feeling. Pure rage. I’m not an angry person. My default negative emotion is sadness and the concept of directing hostility towards other people feels bizarre when I could just beat up on myself instead. Seeing these white supremacy scum grossly disregarding the rights and freedoms of others filled me with a white hot fury. Hearing them spout ignorant hate made me tremble with blinding emotion. All kinds of violent fantasies ran through my head in an instant. A desire to cause pain, draw blood, to see them suffer. I’m the opposite of a violent person. That part of my brain is usually reserved for obscure facts about early 90s animation. These people are cartoon villains flushed into reality. Humans are complex, nuanced creatures and they all seem like two dimensional caricatures. My inability to do anything tangible makes me feel helpless. A surge of energy and emotion put to waste. No number of rants could do anything but blow off steam. Others are doing it better.

Outside of that, I don’t know what to talk about. I mentioned WaterWise earlier. WaterWise was pretty great. We were in Standard Three and Four (so around nine to ten years of age). We’d all pack into a bus and travel up to the Birkenhead Wharf to learn about water safety. They’d divide us up by knowledge levels and teach us accordingly. We learned all about sailing conditions, how to react to the sea when it was choppy, safe. We’d do bombs off the jetty. We learned about kayaks and how to kayak safely. We’d get into kayaks and paddle around the marina. They taught us all manner of knots and how to use each of them. We learned sailing in these little Optimist dinghies. First technique, then practical. We’d move the keel, keep the sail taught. We were shown how to duck underneath the boom (and those who didn’t listen suffered the consequences on their own).

Living in New Zealand, water safety was imperative. It’s a small country surrounded on all sides (and in the middle of the two islands) by water. Beaches and lakes are everywhere. My home city is an isthmus (a word that I get no end of joy typing). Summers were spent on the sand, aside creeks or lakes. While it wasn’t common for all families to own boats (definitely a class thing), what kid didn’t boogie board at least? The education system had realised the importance of a safety initiative and had folded it into the curriculum accordingly.

While I hope Charlotteville is the end of it, I’m not that naive. People will continue to hate, to push their desires over the needs and rights of others. I’d thought that history had made a point of openly condemning the Nazi regime, but apparently the message didn’t stick for all. If we’re looking to move forward as a species, we’re gonna need to move forward together. I’m sure humanity is fucked for good, but on the off chance that we’ll survive our own arrogance, we can’t get there by climbing bodies.

If we can though, I sure hope they’re the Nazi ones.

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Maybe now’s not the best time to ask What Would Morrissey Do?

Today’s been somewhat of an idyllic Sunday. I got a luxurious lie in while my girlfriend had to get up for work. There she was putting on clothes like a chump while my limbs adventured to all four corners of the bed. She had her head full of pending customer interactions while I swam in the bliss of a day full of potential. I didn’t need to do anything, it was up to me. I knew that at some point I’d get out of bed, but beyond that I was following primal urges.

My first urge thrust me out the door in search of coffee. It was beautifully sunny. One of those not scorching or remotely chilly days. A man was biking down the road with a cart on the front of him. A little girl perched excitedly in their. I smiled. “Good morning” he bellowed. “Good morning” his kid followed. It was cute and borderline idyllic. I carried the smile all the way to my usual coffee spot and my usual baristas smiled back. Great coffee as per usual. As I walked out the door, I saw the same father and child from earlier going past. “Good morning again” called the girl. I did some shopping on the way home, picking up a heap of pork chops on sale.

The rest of my pressure-free day followed swimmingly. I finished a presentation for the office. I went to the park and hung my rings on a swings set. I practiced a bunch of muscle ups, pull ups, horizontal holds and ate shit trying to see how well I could iron cross. The answer was not in the least. I came back home and fixed lunch, washed bedsheets and watched some high level pro tour Magic the Gathering. A friend messaged and asked if I wanted to walk to a park or something. I did. We did. We explored a nice forest path around her house, then stopped in at an ice cream parlour that specialised in cookie sandwiches and home made ice cream. In short, my day was top to bottom ideal.

In Charlottesville, things haven’t been so ideal. I watched yesterday as the news rolled in. A white supremacist rally. Young men claiming oppression, chanting “blood and soil”. Carrying fucking tiki torches (if that isn’t cultural appropriation…) in some approximation of a Klan rally. Nazi flags being openly carried in the streets. Semi-automatic weapons being openly carried in the streets. Naked aggression, physical violence. A 20 year old mindless Nazi sympathiser driving his car into a crowd of counter-protesters, killing one and injuring 19. These people who’ve don’t know what it is to be denigrated and spat on for the colour of their skin, to be seen as a lesser form of humanity, to have suffered discrimination and prejudice by the legal system meant to safeguard them, to die at the hands of those meant to protect and serve them. Calling them “people” is strong language. They’re callous scum who are so concerned with their own agenda that the thought of consideration and equality for others to them actively means oppression.

It worries me that I can’t truly say I’m surprised. No, I didn’t expect these kind of atrocities, this mindless hateful rhetoric to resurface. I’m not, however, surprised that it has. We’re seeing a paradigm that hadn’t disappeared, but had merely sunk beneath the surface. The fact that a demagogue sits in the White House and can’t bring himself to condemn this terrorism in his own country out of fear of alienating his own voter base is an atrocity I’m sure the world will feel for years to come. I know we live in an increasingly interconnected world, but we’re seeing instances of hate speech and othering rhetoric rise day by day. It’s a tragedy that in a world where we could do so much to elevate society, restore the natural world, tend to the needs of the less fortunate, we’re losing time, energy and resources to the words and actions of bigots. Remember the strong police presence at Black Lives Matter rallies? Remember peaceful protesters being shot while the police absolved themselves of blame? “He had a gun” or some other lie used to mask blatant injustice? Well where is the strong police presence now? Now that armed protesters set up camp and are actively harming others? Open carry isn’t enough to provoke violent reprisal when the hands carrying the guns are white, apparently.

It frightens me that I can be complacent while others suffer. That I can go on totally disconnected and unaffected while people fear for their life because of their heritage. As a non-practicing Jew, the world hasn’t forgotten a time where my head would’ve been on the chopping block, irrespective of the person I grew to be. I want to say never again. I want to have the conviction that we as a species have evolved beyond reducing complex and nuanced individuals to skin colour. I want to tell myself that this was an anomaly, that open condemnation on the world stage is enough to shock these idiots that’ve bought into an archaic, harmful mindset into realising the error of their ways.

Please, please let me get what I want. How are any of us meant to enjoy idyllic days if we know that others are dying for their right to exist?

Beetloaf? How would anyone ever figure that out?

I was listening to a playlist and David Bowie’s “Heroes” came on. It’s a great song, obviously. This ain’t no hot take. It’s not like you were in doubt about Bowie’s discography until I came down from on high and anointed it with my blessing. Oh, Leon thinks it’s a sweet jam? I better slide this one into my A rotation tout de suite. Bowie don’t need my help. Also, having passed into the pale, he’s beyond my reach.

It got me thinking, when did I get into Bowie? It was likely after hearing a bunch of his stuff on Radio Hauraki. I was 20 or so, working part time at a party store. Despite his legendary status in the rock canon, I didn’t know his stuff intimately. I liked that “Ziggy Stardust” one, but knew piss-all outside of that. I downloaded the rest of the Spiders from Mars album and soaked it in. Then Diamond Dogs. My appreciation of Bowie never passed into true idolatry. Since listening more intently, I’ve always thought he was great, but didn’t get sucked into the orbit of his mythos. I think I missed the boat, his contemporary relevance having happened before my time.

Then Bowie passed away and, well, nothing much changed. I still think he’s pretty great, but even more so than my own appreciation of his work, I love how his music and persona inspired so many. The pop cultural sphere was overflowing with tributes and it was hard to escape (not that I’d care to) from his pervasive oeuvre. Watching interviews where he clearly thought in a manner that was beyond his time, knowing that he constantly championed new and emerging artists only increased my admiration.

I noticed all the furore after his death (partly sparked by his late game release of Blackstar and the oddly prescient “Lazurus”) and wondered, cynically, if any artists had considered faking their death for the sweet, sweet tributes. I thought back to Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson, how the boost to their discography rotations must’ve aided their estates. In poker you’ve gotta know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em. For an established, but fading artist (like Kenny Rogers himself), could it be time to cash out and escape to serene seclusion? Set up getaway plans, have lawyers plot everything out, then disappear leaving only grim fiction of your demise in your wake.

How hard would it be to fake your identity, buy a small plot of land and enjoy the quiet life somewhere outside of public scrutiny? You could chop wood and portage, whittle and play the fiddle. Plus other shit that country people do day in day out. How am I supposed to know? I’ve never shoved my arm up a cow’s butt. Royals and residuals lining your coffers, leaving the rest of your days unencumbered by the need to perform for others. For someone who’d lived in the public eye, wouldn’t that be idyllic? Meatloaf would do anything for love, would he fake his death? C’mon dude, it shouldn’t be hard to create some plant-based persona and find the sweet bliss of obscurity. Kill your public persona and live for yourself, not for anyone else. Then if you need a huge cash infusion, re-emerge from the grave like a Bat Out of Hell.

What are you waiting for? Your career has written itself to this moment.

Just the motivation I kneeded.

I had one of those moments today where I realised what a sloppy garbage person I can be. I’d been for my run and felt both physically exhausted and sweat soaked. I’m lucky, in that my sweat is rarely that pungent. Still, something smelt stale. Was it me? Nobody else in the office had been recently active. My clothes had a “damp” odour, but nothing distressing. I looked over at my knee brace that I’d left to dry out. My eyes narrowed. I picked it up and took a big huff. My innards recoiled. Bingo.

Did knee braces need to be washed? What was mine made of? Some kind of compression fabric with metal bands sewn in for support. Would that rust? How would it handle a washing machine? A dryer? It was a $350 piece of apparel that I greatly need. The notion of ruining it holds no appeal. I thought back to whether I’d ever washed it. Presumably each year after Tough Mudder to get the copious mud and grit out. So maybe twice in almost two years. I entered a Google search string long enough for it to presume I wasn’t human. “Can I wash my knee brace in the washing machine?” earned me a captcha. I got a full page of answers and clicked a few. I was to leave it soaking in warm water and dish soap or vinegar. I was to hang it out and let it air dry. So no on the washing machine/dryer combo. Pity, despite my propensity for jogging, I clearly enjoy taking the easy route.

How often was I supposed to wash it? That depended on the severity of activity. If it was light work such as gardening or short walks, once every three or four uses wood be sufficient. For anything more intense it was advisable to wash it each time. Each time. Per use. I gave a quick thought to how many uses I’d have had in that past year. What was I using it for? Jogging, obviously. Hey lower body workouts for sure. I wear it when I go out dancing. Often I’ll use it for two intense physical sessions in a day. So altogether I’d possibly use it four or five times each week. So maybe I’d given it 200+ fewer washes than it needed? How was it still intact? Why had it not disintegrated into filth? How was my knee not a cluster of lesions and necrotic flesh? I was surprised the connective tissue had yet to become gangrenous. How the fuck hadn’t I smelled it yet? Boxing wraps I’d wash after each use or otherwise risk a nasty fungual infection. Yet I was fine leaving this harbinger of infection clasped around my second favourite leg joint?

I strongly desired sterilised tongs and a hermetically sealed clear plastic bag. This thing needed to be sent to a testing lab to examine the emergence of nefarious new lifeforms. Why are scientists wasting their time on teleporting photons to the edge of space when an all new lethal pathogen has been discovered on my knee brace. Wait, is this finally it? Am I patient zero? Can I finally go and loot sport stores to stockpile for the inevitable zombie apocalypse?

Oh boy, daddy’s gonna get himself a boomstick!

If my arm falls off I’m getting a robot one.

My brain feels dead. After two days of constant stimulation, sun and very little sleep, I need to recover from my holiday. I slept for almost 11 hours last night and woke up achy and shambling. There’s a non-zero chance that I’m now a zombie, but I can’t confirm. My skin doesn’t seem necrotic and I haven’t consumed any human flesh, but all body sensations point to the idea that I’m rotting away. I just sniffed myself and it wasn’t pleasant. If I begin compulsively itching, I may just have to find a personal guillotine.

Speaking of which, I just had the idea for a cheese guillotine and I’m happy to report that it already exists. Good thing, as I lack every skill required to birth a product into existence. I have no design or construction skills, I couldn’t begin to understand the physical requirements of such a utensil (what kind of pressure would it have to be able to withstand? Would it cut hard and soft cheeses alike? For thematic reasons, would it be necessary for it to work on head cheese too?). I have very limited marketing skills, and distribution networks are a mystery to me.

I’ve been having issues with reality today. I’ve been having trouble with telekinesis. For some reason I’m always very empowered while dreaming. Telekinesis is a constant, but flying and Spider Man powers are pretty frequent too. At breakfast this morning I legit tried to invoke telekinesis but to no avail. I wish I was joking, but waking up was a shock to the system. I’m not sure I’ve recovered yet. I was checking the microwave and gestured to a spoon on the other side of the room. For a full second I was confused when it didn’t fly towards my grip. My regret (not at attempting, but failing) lasted thrice that. I begun to consider just how much easier life would be if unbound by the need to physically interact with objects. Cooking, for one, would be tons simpler. There’d be no fear of hot objects. Imagine, I could fry bacon naked with no fear. Cut onions with no tears. I’d have no need for oven mitts. Think of the savings!

I’ve often wondered if possessing telekinesis would mean you could fly. I guess it’d depend on your weight capacity. If you were able to levitate large objects, why not yourself? Or if for some reason you couldn’t move yourself, could you make a physical platform big enough to stand on and levitate that? Or a seat?

Ugh, my mind feels like sludge right now. Maybe it’s the necrosis setting in. Perhaps I need to eat someone else’s brain to augment my own ailing intelligence. Yes. Brains. Mmmmm.

As if clamping down on porn will lower national terror levels.

In today’s no-brainers, holy shit, that London attack was awful. As far as I understand, three men plowed their van into several pedestrians on London bridge. They then left the vehicle on foot armed with knives, wearing fake suicide vests, and begun to attack passers-by, injuring at least 48 people. Within eight minutes the police had shot and killed all the assailants. While usually I’d say that I could only imagine the horror of being stuck in the middle of that kind of scenarios, brief Reddit browsing uncovered first-hand experiences. A local at the popular Borough Market Wheatsheaf Pub said they heard screaming, saw someone stabbed in front of them and everyone in the vicinity began fleeing upstairs. A few minutes later, police showed up and told them to flee the building. I’d expect for that to have been some combination of terrifying and surreal. Seeing that kind of savage violence in front of your eyes would be nightmarish.

I’m not familiar with British parliament, but Theresa May seems to have come of as alarmingly ignorant. Claiming that Britain is far too tolerant of Islamic Extremism, that it’s imperative that extremists are shown the superiority of Western values. She also criticised The Internet for breeding safe spaces where these extremists can communicate. She proposed greater internet censorship as a method of fighting this kind of rhetoric. Seriously? Internet censorship is the answer? Britain is already one of the most surveilled countries in the world, does she think stripping away the personal online freedoms of its citizens will do anything to combat terrorism? As long as the internet exists, people will find ways of sourcing privacy. Extreme measures of clamping down on the information flow would more likely impact the general population that minority cells of terrorists. The level of censorship required to actually make a dent in terror attacks would more likely start breeding discontent on home soil. If any country would likely tell those in charge to sod off over an idea like that, it’d be Britain.

It’s refreshing to see the difference in coverage between UK and US media over an attack such as this. It’s more likely a function of the online streams in which I swim, but overwhelmingly the British response seems to be radiating love and support. Sentiment seems to be fucked if I’m gonna let this get in the way of my Sunday rather than hysterically overplaying the gravitas of the situation. It was awful, but if Britain does anything well, it’s to keep calm and carry on. I mean, they created the initial meme after all.

I’ve gotta say, with a number of friends in London, Facebook’s safety check in system was something of a relief. It seems to have been widely adopted and was a great way of putting ill feelings at ease. Despite the majority of new changes working against the user, this one gets my support.

Can we go back to the ones where I have super powers?

Like most every other human around, work sucks at the moment. Day after day it feels like death by a thousand cuts. The thing I always respected about my job was that it was something I could ignore. Punch in, do the work, punch out and go home. It was breezy and stress free. I knew full well my job didn’t matter and I’d be replaced by machines in sub five years, but that was fine, I’d be gone by then. Increasingly since the merger, more systems and procedures have been put in place that’ve micromanaged my day to day and needlessly complicated things. With dwindling autonomy, I’m beyond ready to leave the job I already wanted to leave two years back. So far the opportunities I’ve gone for have all come back blank. I know things will get better eventually, but for now it feels like I’m gonna be here in ten years with every day being that same shade of mediocre or worse. Barrel of monkeys, it ain’t.

The last job I had before leaving home was as part of a fascinating project. I was digitising and cataloguing a massive archive of National Radio content. It’d all been recorded onto open reel tape and cassette. I’d port the content into a computer, then go through and export each individual show as a separate file. While the duties of the job itself remained the same, the material would vary wildly. Recordings would differ in audio quality and clarity of content. Early recordings were some professor recording the radio haphazardly and left no record of what was on each tape. So I’d have to sleuth them. Going to the library and looking up old radio schedules. Listening out for snippets of time checks, familiar hosts’ voices, or world events we’d be able to date by pouring over Google News archives from the 60s forward. Even when it was difficult, it was fascinating. My boss was this lovely old guy who’d dedicated his life to audio technology and preservation techniques. He was so patient and wise, always happy to explain something no matter how many times it took to sink in. Very sharp thinker. He was the life of that archive and so passionate about what he did. I remember him sadly remarking to me once that he couldn’t bring himself to retire, since there were very few people in the country who’d be knowledgeable enough to continue his work after he’d gone. He wanted to hold on long enough to do everything he possibly could so future generations would have access to the wealth of material.

I had this dream last night that felt all too real. Like, nobody had the head of a fish or overabundant limbs or anything. I’d left my job and returned home to New Zealand, tail (metaphorical only) between my legs. Rather than spending time with friends or loved ones, I went straight out to find a new job, picking up where I left off. I went straight to my old boss to see if there were any projects he’d need a hand with. He told me that once I’d left they couldn’t find anyone to take on the VCR project he’d hoped I would’ve picked up, so he’d be able to put me straight on that. I gratefully took him up on the offer and started straight away. I got into a rhythm and soon enough months had passed and my old normal became my new normal. I’d always liked the job and time away hadn’t diminished it at all. My boss though, seemed less animated than he had last time around. Less passion and more feverish working late into the night. I became worried that he wasn’t doing so well and made a point of checking in on him regularly. He said he was fine, but things really seemed off. I continued plugging away at my work, but with a nagging feeling at the base of my brain.

I looked up an old co-worker who’d helped us out on the project. Wonderful older woman who’d had endless amazing, fascinating life experiences. She said that a week after I’d left, my boss’s​ wife had passed away without warning. He’d taken it hard and his grief had transitioned to workaholism. He’d been throwing himself into trying to finish whatever he could before he too passed and his knowledge died with him. He hadn’t even been leaving the office recently. I went back to work, took one step in the door and begun sobbing uncontrollably. I woke up trembling and all day I’ve been unable to shake it from my mind. I know it was just a dream, but I can’t get rid of this sense that it wasn’t.