Overcome By Endorphins

I had one of those moments today, when I was on the way home. I don't have them very often. From what I gather, other people seem to get them relatively frequently. What I'm talking about is the occurrence where everything just suddenly seems right -- as if a kind of order has been achieved that wasn't there before. I know it's an abstract concept, but considering that I am in a decidedly unstable mental state and have been so for the past few days, I'm surprised that I was able to have one of these experiences at this particular point in time.

The train was sitting in the siding on top of the hill at Avondale, waiting for the citybound service to pass. It had been a productive day to say the least, having seen my last-minute completion of my Film Studies assignment go very much according to plan. I had finally gained a window seat after being elsewhere in the carriage for the last half hour or so, and I was glad of it because it virtually gave me a view of the whole of the north-western part of Auckland. I could see my house, I could see the North Shore, the city and university all in one huge, motley diorama. Since it was about quarter to five, the sun was at just the right position in the sky; it was shining in my eyes but at the same time it was not painful or annoying. The bright light was set against a peaceful blue sky that was strewn with whispy white cloud formations. As a result of the atmospherics, everything had that surreal look to it, where the colours bleed together just so and the aesthetics of the city resemble an elaborate oil painting.

The little one-lane streets surrounding the hill were empty despite the fact that it was just about rush hour, kept awake at this stage only by the families of children frolicking across the cool black asphalt. It felt like the entire city had lapsed into some kind of heavenly siesta. The corrugated iron rooftops of New Lynn glistened gently under the sunlight, and sun-showers fell conservatively in places atop the Waitakere Ranges that made up my horizon. Topping it all off, Sigur Rós streamed sensuously through my headphones, providing a fitting soundtrack to the otherworldly sense of contentment and peace that I was feeling. To think that this very morning, my mother had been complaining to me that she feels as if I never want to see the good in things. I briefly came to the recurring, yet remarkably infrequent realisation that, for all its negative points, the world is just so beautiful.

I Know They Can, I Know They Can

One of the great things about going to university this year has been experiencing the pleasure of travelling into the city by train every week. Contrary to popular opinion as expressed by the media -- and consequently that which is held by a significant proportion of the general public -- Auckland's suburban railways are in fact becoming increasingly reliable and, in my opinion, enjoyable to use. Following a serious dip in standards in the late nineties as a result of the short-sighted privatisation of the nation's entire railway network, which has undeniably crippled people's confidence in the active passenger services, the suburban rail system at least has now re-emerged in a form that rivals even its former efficiency and splendour that it possessed in the days of steam.

When I was trialling the different modes of transport into the city at the start of the year, I came to discover rail's outright superiority to the buses -- that's not to belittle the buses too much, of course; I still think they're preferable to driving in most circumstances. However, consistently taking the train has proven to be most rewarding, despite the relatively long distance between the stations and my house. One of the most significant advantages has been the fact that the trains are so smooth and quiet in their new, refurbished forms. This obviously provides the opportunity to get some good, unabated study or last-minute readings done during the journey into town, which for me usually rounds out at about forty-five minutes from Henderson to Britomart. The trains seldom sway as furiously and disconcertingly as the buses, there is certainly a lot less revving of engines, and there are no sharp turns. In my experience, passengers tend to be a lot quieter than those on buses too. The payload is usually made up of less children and more working people. Most people who one encounters on a train are very polite and friendly, particularly the staff, who provide service with a smile and engage in conversation with passengers between stations. You won't encounter any angsty drivers on the train, which I'm sure many of you will appreciate as a considerably positive point given that you will have had the displeasure of facing the none-too-uncommon short-fused bus drivers.

Another factor that makes the trains so appealing to me is the fact that they are full of people who are forsaking the selfish confines of certain other notably uneconomical and environmentally unfriendly modes of transportation, choosing instead to travel together and place some faith in the railways. It is becoming increasingly displeasing to see the general lack of confidence in this invaluable service that is being perpetuated in Auckland's culture, with -- as per usual -- little to no thanks going to the media. Admittedly, earlier on in the year train reliability was greatly unpredictable, but that was due to the ongoing project of double-tracking the Western Line. Now that a substantial amount of that is completed, the number of trains sticking to their schedules has noticeably improved -- I myself have not been on a single significantly late train so far this semester.

Despite all this, the media continue to ridicule the prospect of an efficient Auckland suburban rail system having any chance of developing. They are able to reinforce this slanderous campaign with the help of irritating passengers who sit there sighing, looking at their watch and holding their head in their hands whenever any slight delay occurs, and who then proceed to dial the Herald and loudly submit their story over the phone. All the while they insist on engaging in a futile verbal attack on the train staff -- who are innocents responsible for clipping tickets and nothing more. I was sitting opposite one such grouchy passenger a few months ago, when a signal failure on the Western Line resulted in the trains ending up running about two hours late. Inevitably, her comments made it into a Herald article damning the railways on the subsequent weekend, much to my outrage.

Needless to say, that sort of time spent on the train is bound to spawn some discussion among the passengers, and as it turned out a considerably friendly atmosphere had been created. People had got to know each other and were passing the time with light-hearted conversation. That particular evening certainly instilled me with a reinforced sense of belief in the goodness in people, being marred only by the fanatic detractor. From what the passengers that I talked to said, I got an overall impression that there is in fact a base of faith in rail and that people are willing to persevere.

This is what people need to realise -- that perseverance is the key. It must be understood that the Rogernomics-induced selling of the Auckland suburban rail system to private commercial interests has caused it to fall into a shocking state, and that we cannot expect it to simply be up-and-running in a super-efficient manner reminiscient of the days of steam as soon as some money is thrown at it. The process of revival is undoubtedly going to take time, but by the looks of how much things have progressed within the seven months that I have been making use of the service, I would say that there is not long to go, provided that people can just have some faith. If rail is not given a chance, we may not ever see it reach its full, wonderful potential, and taking into account the approaching fuel crisis and economic slump, that would be not just a shame -- it would be a disaster.

Post-Election Suspense

It certainly feels strange, having just experienced the recent long-winded flurry of political activity that was the election build-up, to now see the news containing virtually no material relating to politics. I'm sure I speak for just about everyone when I say that it's going to be fantastic to at last get to know the election results. It's starting to look questionable as to whether they will actually be finalised this Saturday as scheduled, though, if one considers this vaguely concerning situation with the mis-printed overseas ballot papers.

You probably would have taken particular notice of one of the very few pieces of election-related news that were released in the past week, and as such you will be aware that apparently, some or all of the parties' names have been blanked out on a number of overseas voters' printouts of the ballot paper, which they were required to download off the Electoral Commission Web site. Reportedly there have been ten complaints about defects in the paper. When Green Party co-leader Rod Donald caught wind of this, he was understandably concerned, as any slight discrepancy in the counting of votes could cost his party particularly dearly.

It has emerged today that Rod has taken the initiative to write to the Electoral Commission, imploring them to make sure that ballot papers that did not print correctly are set aside. This would be an easy request for the counters to deliver on, however it could possibly be unfair to some parties and voters. Any papers that are discarded are rendered a wasted vote. Consider the occurrence that the Greens are blanked out on one of these forms, and the voter has ticked Labour. Nulling that particular ballot paper would be like assuming that the voter was going to vote for the Greens, and that because the Greens did not have a listing on the paper, the voter simply chose to vote for the other left-wing party that is likely to gain seats.

The voter in that scenario may have always had the intention to vote for Labour, however, and because of the fact that there was a defect in their ballot paper their vote would, unfairly, not count. It's also a justifiable statement to say that it would be notably unfair to the Labour Party, with them having had a potential vote effectively stolen from them. Of course, considering the outstanding closeness of the electoral race this time around, every vote must be counted. It's important that this happens, in order to move Parliament as far away as possible from becoming a hung one.

At the same time, all measures possible must be taken to make sure that the Greens have received all of the votes that they are entitled to, as their Parliamentary presence hangs in the balance. The left will be in serious trouble should the Greens fall below the five per cent threshold following the counting of the special votes. In the interests of fairness, I am supportive of an in-depth inquiry into the legitimacy of the vote, and I think that we can expect such an investigation if any party ends up feeling hard-done-by. The fact remains, however, that it's still not going to be enjoyable if we have to wait an extra few weeks for the final results.

In The House Of Brian (Pt. 2)

It's fair to say that the three of us were gripped by senses of anxiety that varied in strength as the musicians and singers took the stage and burst into epic, albeit repetitive, song. The heaving mass of the churchgoers standing below the stage swayed excessively from side-to-side, clapping to the beats of the songs (although they wouldn't have been doing this if the singers on-stage had not been doing it). Alison, Robbie and I had to join in so as to attempt to reduce the air of suspicion that was surrounding us. In light of the fact that church officials had been talking to each other and glancing at us earlier, we had to do all we could to seem really into it though.

The woman doing the lead singing cried out praises repeatedly, attempting to sound like a gospel singer. "I can see some closed mouths!" was one comment that the singer made. Alison told me afterwards that at that point she was beginning to feel increasingly conspicuous. Church officials patrolled the aisles, slyly surveying the worshippers. The music in itself was not bad at all; more disconcerting was the drawn-out nature of the songs, and the inevitable increasing feeling of suspense that developed as a consequence. We were constantly aware that eventually, Brian Tamaki was to appear on stage, and were decidedly uncomfortable because of that fact. After the music had finished, there was a brief moment in which we were morbidly concerned that Brian was not going to be speaking, as a Destiny pastor rose to the paupet to speak to us about the importance of tithing. He made several references to the scriptures (I apologise for not having noted them down) in support of his argument, and emphasised that two gold coin donations were encouraged -- one for the church itself and one to fund Destiny TV. We were enlightened to the idea that Destiny sermons are now apparently broadcast live on Prime.


The pastor then took the highly-esteemed privilege of welcoming Brian Tamaki. When the man himself did at last find his feet amidst the ranks of church officials sitting in the front rows immediately before the stage, the amount of approval that he received from the assembly was incredible. The response he got certainly was a lot more rousing than the praise that had been directed at God at the conclusion of the two songs that opened the service. All the musicians save for the keyboardist filed tidily off the stage, and infinitely powerless synths began to flow through the speakers as Brian basked in man-made light and proudly took up his influential position behind the paupet. It took a while for everybody to settle down, especially since many more were still arriving.

Brian opened his time of speaking by making a few decidedly heavy comments that had seemingly been dumbed down so as not to register as too depressing to the faithful. He promised that it was going to be a more leisurely sermon than usual, allegedly in light of the fact that it had been "a hard weekend" and "a hard three years, actually." These two statements of course were undoubtedly in reference to the General Election, and Labour's term in government in which it had initiated the Civil Union and the Prostitution Law Reform Bills, respectively. As he broke the spine of the Bible so that it would remain on the page from which he was about to read scripture, he briefly mentioned the sermon that had happened that morning and how successful it had been.

However, Brian was not to make particularly extensive reference to the scriptures, instead choosing to go off on a tangent that simply used one or two pieces of the literature as a starting point. Again, allow me to apologise for not having recorded which ones they were. Brian explained that the evening's sermon was going to be about the "face, space and place" of the individual as a part of "the whole." As it turned out, his entire one and a half hour speech ended up being based around those three rhyming words, with it being a not-uncommon occurrence for all three to appear in the same sentence, and usually spoken within three seconds of one another. This butchering of logical sentence structure and spoken language was, however, evidently taken in with great enthusiasm by his supporters in the crowd. The huge man next to me -- clad in his blindingly white "Destiny Kapa Haka - Traditional Family Values" jacket, which made swishing noises every time he made the slightest movement -- scrawled every "major point" that was made onto his A4 notepad.

One such point that Alison, Robbie and I have found particularly memorable is when Brian said something along the lines of "Our keyboard player Andrew here... If I were to go over there and invade his space, and threaten to take over his place, he's gonna say 'get out of my face.'" The disordered and, as a consequence, almost incomprehensible nature of what he was saying was met with thunderous laughter and applause from the crowd, no less. What I have articulated gives a fair idea of the sort of irritating slapstick lunacy that Brian was giving off, but the fact that the sentences he speaks are so chaotic gives me little ability to give a totally accurate quote without actually possessing a recording of the sermon.

At times when he was speaking in a more composed manner, it was almost equally as difficult to take him seriously, and this was not helped by Andrew the keyboardist's contributions to the atmosphere. Weak music that sounded like it was trying to be New Age and Gothic at the same time incessantly buzzed along in the background, its poorly-conveyed mood changing in correlation to what Brian was saying. It jabbed abruptly -- disruptively -- whenever Brian uttered a word such as "liberal." To me at least, the keyboard synths were more irritating than anything, although I can see that the intended use would be to affect "appropriate" feelings on the crowd, in terms of reinforcing the nature of what Brian was saying. It was an interesting concept but I don't think that it was executed very well. The poor choice of synths, sound effects and incoherent musical structure ended up reminding me of the soundtrack to the TV show Big Wolf On Campus.

Having spoken extensively about the "places," or roles within "the whole," of the musicians and singers that had participated in the opening of the sermon, Brian moved on to another case study -- that of "the CEO." He imitated the detractors of the CEO of a company, gesturing towards the administrative part of the church building: "That guy down the hall, the CEO, he's always got his feet up on the desk and his hands behind his head, with his eyes closed, like he's asleep; dreaming all the time."

He then set about allegedly paraphrasing the supporters of the CEO: "That's his job. His role, his place is to lie there and dream. He's the one with the vision. He dreams up the direction the company's going to take next." Proudly, with a smug look on his face and his moving his finger to point to his own chest, Brian then declared, "That man is me." The roof of the building was almost lifted off with the powerful roar of approval from the crowd that followed Brian's unashamed self-exaltation, and what I interpreted as virtually an admittance to the fact that Destiny is more of a profit-making undertaking for its leader than anything else. Immediately after Brian had made his assertion, I gave out an involuntary groan. I simply couldn't help myself. He had succeeded in absolutely disgusting me and at that moment I felt certain that all I'd heard about Destiny Church being an ultra-conservative personality cult was true. It was becoming very hard to fight the waves of nausea and I was beginning to greatly look forward to the conclusion of the sermon.

However, there was one more serious hurdle to endure before the end. "The whole" was never solidly defined throughout the sermon, leaving the term open to interpretation until the very end. I do not recall Brian ever mentioning God in the context of the whole; rather, it was distinctly focussed on the church and the furthering of its interests within both the local and international communities. The idea of Destiny's superiority to other churches and the expression of the need for it to influence other churches was constantly emphasised. Also, the subjugation of the individual churchgoers for the benefit of the whole was promoted. It is decreed that they each have a role to play in the hive of activity that is the church.

In the final prayer that closed the sermon, all of those points were covered, with Brian making a call-out to his supporters, imploring them to "serve the corporate body." The prayer was the first time in the sermon at which the term "corporate body" had been substituted for "the whole" -- needless to say, I was shocked at the language that was used to describe what is supposedly a church. As he dismissed the sermon at last, Brian's parting words were telling unnerving: "Go forth and multiply." Alison, Robbie and I left hastily, wisely ignoring the invitation to supper. Enough was enough.

The Tunnel Of Fear Became A Water Slide

Having finally seen Tim Burton's Charlie And The Chocolate Factory yesterday following a lengthy delay that was produced by extensive procrastination, I've found that I have a few things I need to get off my chest. I did enjoy parts of the film, but let me just say that I did not come out of it feeling as satisfied as I would have liked. I didn't engage in too much of a rant at Alison, Stacey and Pie with whom I went to see the film. The reason for this is because they seemed to have really enjoyed it and I didn't want to kill the moment. Now, it's my time to let it rip. Please do not get techy if you don't agree with what I have to say. It is my understanding that a considerable number of people are very sensitive about this.

I will not touch on the minor details as I certainly do not wish to engage in any kind of piece-by-piece dissection of the entire film. Although it definitely features a lot of things worthy of discussion, it would be an epic task (I reserve that for the art critics of the future as they pseudo-inevitably study the filmography of Johnny Depp). Instead I have decided that I'm going to focus on the most major qualm that I have with Charlie And The Chocolate Factory -- that is, the alternative portrayal and virtual reinterpretation of Willy Wonka's character. I cannot bring myself to say that I didn't mind it. In fact, it outright frustrated me.


I will admit now that I have not read the original story as written by Roald Dahl. However, I am quite confident that the Wonka depicted in Mel Stuart's 1971 film Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory was a much more accurate representation of a Dahlian character. Played by Gene Wilder, Wonka was deliciously mental. The frizzy hair, the eccentric clothing, his reactions (or rather his lack thereof) to the numerous childrens' different circumstances of misfortune, and his truly manic, crystalline eyes, were among the extensive range of factors that asserted him as a remarkable cause of concern. He had this almost psychedelic air about him that worked in perfect symbiosis with the environment of the chocolate factory. One got the feeling that he was almost dangerous. In the discussions that have arisen since the release of Charlie And The Chocolate Factory this year, I have heard some people claim that Gene Wilder's Wonka had too much of a fatherly personality. I argue against this, and would suggest that people are only seeing that in him now that they have experienced the infantile, squeaky-voiced character of the contemporary film, and are contrasting Wilder's performance against Johnny Depp's.

Allow me to assert that I certainly have no intent of belittling Depp's acting ability -- I merely do not think that the Wonka character, which is of course central to the narrative, was articulated particularly well in the more recent film. Tim Burton attempted to achieve the impression of the character's madness through such methods as imbuing him with a high-pitched voice, unnatural looks and childish mannerisms. The result for me yielded strong psychological allusions to Michael Jackson on ecstacy and having undergone yet more facial surgery. Simplicity of the mind does not maketh the mad. Why then, did Burton and Depp insist on presenting us with a depiction of a decidedly simple Wonka?

The on-the-nail psychotic nature in which the character was depicted in the past has been obliterated and I do not see the sense in it. Burton's Wonka finds everything entertaining, which I personally found highly enraging given the fact that almost nothing was funny in reality. He constantly gives off a Michael Jackson-esque, "look, I am so insane, I have lost my mind, but I'm actually just a childish idiot" laugh. He also performed the gag of walking into the closed door of the Glass Elevator approximately three times too many. Perhaps I had become an outright bah-humbug by this stage in the film, but it felt annoying that everyone in the entire cinema except me was in hysteria as a result of that lame, poor tactic. Capping off the badly-constructed character was his clothing. He was so prim, so proper, so poseur. The madness is just gone. In the end we are left with not even a shell of the former Wonka. May we let him lie for the rest of humanity's days.

In The House Of Brian (Pt. 1)

It's one thing to take for granted all that you hear about something in the media and through word of mouth, and accept that whatever is being popularly said about that certain something is the truth. It's another thing entirely to actually go out into the field and attempt to discover first-hand, for yourself, the real nature of the subject under discussion, to create a solid and confident opinion on it on the basis of personal experience. The latter is, involving somewhat questionable logic, what Alison, Robbie and I engaged in on Sunday evening. After having the general idea of "it's not a church, it's a cult" quite solidly hammered into our intellects over the past year or so, we took a brave (foolhardy?) plunge and attended, yes, a Destiny Church sermon.

We had been quite aware beforehand of the fact that it was going to be a potentially difficult task to infiltrate and sit through the service without arousing any degree of suspicion. When we arrived, we realised that our job was going to be that much harder than we had first expected. It was clearly evident that the three of us were decidedly conspicuous, given the fact that the absolutely vast majority of people who are involved with the church are Maori and Pacific Islanders. At around six in the evening, the sun was low on the horizon and obscured by solid black clouds, reacting with our circumstance to produce feelings of intense foreboding. Grey-haired male church officials exchanged pseudo-hugs -- manhugs, here's-a-pat-on-the-back-because-we-can't-press-against-each-other hugs -- as they met in the carpark directly in front of the church. Shoddily-dressed children tumbled around in the wet, obstructing the slow-moving traffic, calling each other "gaybos." Orange-clad massive guys waved high-vis sticks, directing cars to parking spaces as if they were planes having just landed at an airport.

As we walked from the cold into the eerily lukewarm we were greeted fondly by two women standing on either side of the main doors. "Wow," was the first thing I said under my breath. Robbie followed shortly after, muttering "keep a straight face, keep a straight face..." or something along those lines, as we gazed upon a larger-than-life poster of Brian Tamaki dressed in a King Arthur-like costume, leaning on a five-foot-long sword which seemed to have gold-plated handles. We stroll into the merchandise store and have a brief look over what there is for sale, commenting on things that we find entertaining or disturbing, or freakishly both. I was considering buying a Destiny Church cap until I heard that Alison and Robbie were being greeted behind me. I introduced myself and we thanked the woman for the welcome, before walking into the main chamber.

Ever-increasingly conscious of our distinctiveness consequential to being present amongst several thousand dark-skinned Destinites, we took up some seats behind the main gathering. Young children scrambled around on the seats behind us, continuously taking great pleasure in repeatedly saying "Whakapapa." Ah, to be young again, I thought to myself. However, I was interrupted by Alison shakily whispering out the "slogan" painted in gargantuan lettering on the far wall:

EVENTUALLY EVERYTHING

WILL COME UNDER

OUR INFLUENCE

By now there was no doubt that the three of us were feeling decidedly disconcerted. Myself, I could actually feel the blood draining from my face. I believe I would have been growing ever-whiter at this time. There was a constant strange feeling that we were being watched because of how severely we stood out; our reactions gauged. Needless to say, our reactions to much of what we were seeing were a mixture of disbelief and noticeable disturbance. Robbie suggested that I use my phone to take a photo of the huge slogan, but I wussed out. As we sat in our seats, we were greeted again by a representative of the organisation, a seemingly friendly man who asked us where we were from among other questions. Robbie provided all of the answers in complete honesty. The man asked us if we had gone to the morning service, and explained that it had been a really powerful one. My interpretation of what he said was that there had been a huge anti-Labour ceremony, following the release of the provisional election results the night before, but I could be wrong. He then went on to comment about the bad weather, that his umbrella had blown inside out that morning and that his dog had wanted to jump on him.

I couldn't refrain from smiling wryly as the man walked away from us, and I was subsequently plunged into a state of pure fear as Alison told me not to smirk because a group of officials were apparently looking at us and talking to each other. I started to feel physically sick. I was not to regain the psychological composure that I had lost until over a day after the sermon had finished. Another official came over and asked to look in Robbie's bag. Cameras are not allowed to be used inside the church, but the official trusted Robbie because he willingly showed him the camera. He asked where we're from, and jested "You're not from the Labour Department are you? Just jokes!" Just before the man returned to his little huddle of black-suited brethren, he commented that Robbie looked like Jesus Christ. We all laughed nervously in unison. "And he should know," Alison said a few seconds later.

As the half-past-six sermon start time established itself as only a few minutes away, distinctly-unsettling, heavy, march-like orchestral music began to play through the barely-adequate speaker system, echoing around the converted warehouse that is the venue. I could feel my heart pumping in my chest. Alison, Robbie and I discretely reached the consensus that it was scary. The Destiny TV introductory sequence was projected onto the screens at the front of the chamber in all its corporate-esque CGI glory. Two sets of white words burst onto a black background: "The service is about to begin" and then "Please take your seats." A woman then appeared onscreen and began to advise us to take note of the nearest exits. The introductory sequence did indeed, as Alison was to comment later, make our circumstance feel like some scary ride. Frightening it most certainly was, as we were instructed to move ever-further forward, until we were considerably closer to the main crowd of devout followers, and made to take our seats.

The Other Side

As the excitement of Election Day continues to dissipate ever-further, we are confronted with the task of taking stock in light of the results released on Saturday night. That window of a few hours in which the vote counts were flowing in certainly provided those interested with a breathtaking roller coaster ride. For a time after the beginning of the coverage, as mostly only rural electorate votes had been counted, it was appearing that the National Party was going to achieve a comfortable margin of victory. However, Colin James (who doesn't vote), as part of TVOne's coverage, continually voiced the assurance that when the results from the major centres started coming in, we could expect Labour to catch up.

Catch up is what they did, of course, with Labour securing one more parliamentary seat than National on the night. This can be somewhat expected to change, however, as the two-hundred and eighteen thousand special votes have yet to be counted. The special votes encompass many old folks' homes, and as such it is anticipated that they will yield a significant boost to National's share of the vote. There also exists the possibility that the counting of these votes may produce the electoral downfall of the Greens, who are clinging precariously to five point one per cent of the party vote. Some political analysts have expressed, however, the belief that there may actually be a reasonable number of votes for the Greens among the special votes. If that is the case then there is the potential for the Greens' seventh list MP, Nandor Tanzcos, to gain a seat in Parliament.

The idea that the election results will not actually be finalised until the first of October, due to the fact that special votes have to be counted, is an unsettling one. In contrast to many people's circumstantial moods on election night, everything is now shrouded by remarkable uncertainty and apprehension. As the results stand now, though, to me it seems possible that the left of Parliament -- Labour, Greens, the Maori Party and Jim Anderton's Progressive Party -- could form a solid and stable coalition government, but crucially not without the fluid support of the arguably untrustworthy United Future, or the inarguably untrustworthy New Zealand First. The parties of the right -- National and Act -- could form a coalition government with Peter and Winston also, albeit a potentially unstable one given the fact that they would have to incorporate both of the two fluid parties.

Of course, it is too early to make any solid predictions, but in my eyes those are the two primary ways that it could work. Whether there is a change of government or not, I think that in the end we are going to see a very strong and solid left-wing force in Parliament, next to a rather fragmented and unstable right-wing made up of conflicting self-interested individuals. Speaking of whom, I was anticipating that I was going to be including an obituary for Rodney Hide today, but much to the surprise of the majority of people he has defied most of the predictions and taken out the Epsom seat, resulting in him and one other ACT MP keeping seats in Parliament. For that, I personally am glad, because "that little ferret of a man" -- as my geography teacher of last year spoke of him when he couldn't put his finger on the name -- is one of those entertainingly obnoxious individuals who adds a splash of the tongue-in-cheek quality to Parliament. Not that he means to seem tongue-in-cheek.

E-Day

Isn't the atmosphere just awesome? Forget the fact that the weather is emphatically mediocre and that I am considerably tired following last night, most of which was spent at Fu Bar. What we are seeing occur today is the culmination of many months of tense anticipative hype. Most importantly the results will determine what course our country will take for the next three years. We are on a knife-edge here; one that is smothered with lubricant that warms on contact. This, my friends, is awesome.

I plugged my phone into the charger this morning, having just dragged myself out of bed, to find no less than nine text messages carrying a wide range of electoral prompts and slogans. "Forward. Together"; "Two ticks for National"; "Vote Labour, bee-atchs!". I remember feeling a brief sense of disappointment that free text is in place today, as otherwise I could have taken pleasure in the fact that the various Nats who had texted me had wasted their hard-earned capital. The privilege soon came into its own, however, as I threw various equally antagonistic comments back at them.

When I was at my local polling place, a gruelling twenty-metre-if-that walk up the road from my house, there was one thing that irked me -- just about everybody involved in doing the administrative activities was wearing a blue National ribbon. My mum, who came with me to vote, didn't notice that people were wearing them when she was there, but when I told her about it she expressed doubt as to its lawfulness, as it is basically an advertisement right there in voters' faces as they are about to walk to the booth. She suggested that I call someone from the Labour Party and ask them about it, but I checked the Election Day rules first and it turns out that parties, supporters or candidates are in fact allowed to wear ribbons.

Personally, regardless of whether I agree with a party's politics, I don't think allowing things like that is right, particularly considering that it is apparently not even legal for me to be displaying the bumper sticker on my car today. I still haven't bothered to take the sticker off though, and my car is parked where it always is -- in our driveway, twenty metres away from the polling place, its rear end resplendent with the bumper sticker, pointing towards the footpath for all to see. If you haven't voted yet, I am shocked, appalled and you shouldn't be online -- you should be out fulfilling your responsibility of participating in the democracy with which you are privileged. Do it now.

The Waiting Game

We're finally there. It's arguably the most eery and introspective part of the entire election campaign, for both voters and politicians alike. The streets ring with the sounds of questionably admirable, possibly false promises, emanating from loudhailers atop the parties' respective campaign vehicles. Student members of political organisations make last-ditch efforts to gain votes for their party of choice, blanketing the university quad with leaflets. If you agree with a particular party, then its leaflets contain "promises." If you don't agree, then the leaflets contain "propaganda." Your friend tells the Labour pamphleteer that he's a National voter; the Labour guy couldn't care less because this has all now degenerated down to a superficial sports game by this point. What really matters is the crunch that is to occur tomorrow.

The rain provides a dismal backdrop to the anxious feelings undoubtedly shared by most politically-minded people today. The cars hiss along the slick wet roads. There is a strange sense that everything is far more subdued than usual. People are less boisterous; those of them that are politicos are deep in thought. The equilibrium of the world feels as if it's on a temporary hiatus. Seeking reassurance, we delve into the latest polls, only to find a shambolic tangle of conflicting results. We realise that it's near impossible to predict what Election Day is going to yield. We feel helpless. We are helpless.

Confusingly, at the same time, tomorrow is undoubtedly the most anticipated day of the year for many of us, myself included. Despite the nervous anticipation that is pulsing through our society at this moment in time, it feels strangely like Christmas to me (albeit a Christmas where Santa might drop a nuclear bomb down my house's non-existent chimney). The 2005 General Election really is the one event that I have been building up to all year. The flames of my interest were fanned further by Raymond Miller's thoroughly excellent course on New Zealand politics that Hannah, Alison, Grant and I studied last semester. I feel a huge amount of excitement building up. Even with so much at stake politically, there is one thing that is certain, particularly if you participate in voting: this election, combined with the inevitably epic coalition negotations that are going to take place, is going to make for one heck of a ride.

Cheap And Nasty

I wish to clearly emphasise that I have had quite enough with certain people's constant degradation of Helen Clark on the basis of her looks. It has been happening ever since she entered the political limelight and although this disrespect is not at its peak at present (it has been notably worse in the past), it is a particularly inappropriate time at which to engage in such petty, childish monologue. With the election now just two full days away, it is a time for all New Zealanders of the voting age to act their age and be engaging in some serious consideration of the real magnitude of the situation.

Keeping that in mind, you can probably understand that I am -- to put it in a straightforward manner -- disgusted and infuriated by the total disrespect that Helen received from student supporters of National and ACT at Canterbury University when she spoke there yesterday. Regardless of whether I agree with a given politician's ideology or not, I expect people to treat them with respect. Nobody should ever have to contend with hateful and malicious attacks of the sort that were directed at Helen in this instance. The Herald article addressing this story quoted two of the anti-Helen placards that were present as saying "Nice teeth" and "Speed kills and so do your looks Helen". The photo accompanying the article also appears to show another sign saying "She's so hot right now".


I simply don't have any comprehension of how the students involved can live with themselves. Their actions at Helen Clark's rally clearly do not show to us any kind of political merit on their part. Rather, as has been relatively commonplace among detractors of the Labour government throughout its two terms in power, these wannabe-politicos have chosen to engage in the unintellectual and farcical practise of attempting to discredit Helen on the basis of physical appearance. These tactics really are among the lowest of the low that we have seen wielded in the context of politics over the past few years.

It has been bad enough that this kind of demeaning talk about Helen has been carrying on in the background -- and for these students to bring it forward at a rally like this and rub it in her face is disgraceful to a monstrous extent. Without a doubt, there was nothing that was going to be achieved through these students' actions other than showing utter disrespect to Helen and causing her emotional hurt. It's highly probable that these were the students' intentions. Having been queried about this, she insists that it has not bothered her, however she was reportedly very shaken up following her experience with the abusive students, and personally I would not be surprised if damage has been done. It's time for everybody who has talked smack about Helen in regards to her looks to show some maturity and shift their focus more onto more important aspects such as her political personality and ability to lead this country. Besides, I really am baffled as to why people have tended to be so derogatory towards Helen when there is nothing wrong with the way she looks anyway.

Partisan But Not

I prepared to leave the house today having missed Breakfast and consequently the news -- which is, of course, of particularly intense interest at this moment in time, owing to the swift approach of the General Election. In a moment of confused panic, I found myself overcome with a strange craving for intravenously injected current affairs information. However, I ended up forcing myself to settle for the next worst thing. I grabbed my pocket radio and headphones out of my drawer and hurried out of the house. I was going to spend the hour-long train trip into the city listening to Leighton Smith on Newstalk ZB.

What I did hear of the show was surprisingly objective and non-partisan; it was certainly not what I had been expecting given Leighton's reputation as a decidedly disagreeable individual, particularly to someone of my political persuasion. Indeed, the quality of the show did deliver on Newstalk ZB's promise to be "more stimulating talk radio." Leighton's opening statements were excusable, possibly due to the mere fact that they were of such a ridiculous nature and so hard to take as politically serious. He described one of today's anti-Labour leaflets put out by the Exclusive Brethren (titled "CLAIM YOUR SEAT TO WATCH THE ALL BLACK ACTION!") which many of you undoubtedly will have seen. He then went on to ask the question as to whether the All Blacks would come under fire for being promoted by the Brethren "for the sake of fairness," given what happened to National.

What followed however was thoroughly interesting -- a discussion about a social-political commentator whose name evades me now, who has declared that he will not be voting this election and has not voted since 1975, because he believes that it is the right thing to do given the nature of his profession. His idea is, presumably, that via not voting he is able to project a vague notion of his neutrality to the audience, and also to assert within himself that sense of being neutral. Of course, what was under criticism on Leighton's show was whether it is "appropriate" for this social commentator to attempt to increase his personal credibility through this method. One verbalisation that it brought forward from many callers was the assertion that if you don't vote, you have no right to complain, and that it is therefore wrong for this individual to provide commentary.

It was Leighton himself who introduced the most interesting concepts. He noted that everybody has a political persuasion; that whether they admit it or not they lean in a particular direction. As such, all commentary is subject to varying degrees of ideological bias. There is no such thing as commentary in which there is no inherent bias. In the case of virtually all social commentators -- Leighton used himself as an example -- it is solidly evident "which way the wind blows" for them. This leaves them with a responsibility to vote for their party of choice; that they may not look upon the citizens of this country as fools who can't figure out any particular commentator's ideology just by listening to their respective commentary.

As a consequence of all this, abstaining from voting altogether with the intention of adding more credibility to one's self as a commentator -- essentially to erect a neutral image -- is in fact a backwards and devious thing to do. I thoroughly agree with Leighton on this point. I feel that a commentator's proud participation in the democratic process is in actuality what may attribute to their credibility, as they are being straight up about the fact that they do hold ideological biases as opposed to trying to hide it from the public. It shows that they are confident in the public as not being devoid of the ability to see through farcical covers, such as that of proclaiming that one doesn't vote. It makes you think, doesn't it?

As We Return To The Mindfield

This is the day that we have been dreading, but at the same time looking forward to, for a considerable time. Most of us will be returning to university today for our first lectures of Semester Two (Pt. 2). There are not any classes running today in which I am enrolled, but I'll be going to Raymond Miller's stage two lecture about New Zealand elections. Obviously his lectures in the weeks that sit on either side of Election Day are going to be particularly fascinating. I can confidently say that so far this semester, Raymond Miller's lectures have easily been my favourites, which is ironic and perhaps even slightly entertaining given the fact that Hannah, Alison and I are all regular imposters in that class as opposed to actual enrolled students.

Forgive me for being the complainant, but today's schedule has set itself up quite rigidly. On my way to university I have to stop into the bank and interrogate the innocent clerk who has nothing to do with anything as to why my tertiary account allowed me to overdraft, and then subsequently charged me twenty dollars for a supposedly unauthorised overdraft. I thought that it was a given that tertiary students have a tendency to go into overdraft, and as such a tertiary account should not charge for overdrafts? I'm earning roughly ninety dollars a week at the moment and forty of that gets put into an account to pay for next year's uni fees. I can't afford to be deprived of another twenty dollars by the patronising bank.

After going to the bank of course comes the good part of the day (although it is still part of a rigid schedule nonetheless, which serves to irritate) -- I get to go to Raymond Miller's lecture which will undoubtedly be enthralling beyond comprehension. It's going to be excellent to hear an alternative interpretation of the current polls and the colourful political events that have occurred over the past couple of weeks that we've been away from university, especially from an academic scholar; an expert on "elite opinion." It should be good in the long run to get back into the regular academic environment again as well, as it's been very eery at times sitting at home alone. I'm being rather ridiculous in saying that though because I have spent a noticeable majority of my time out of the house these holidays. Only three of the days did I not see friends, an accomplishment with which I am pleased given the fact that I put the last two holiday periods totally to waste.

Then capping off today's routine is wage labour. I'm not so anxious about tonight's shift, as the usual Fordistic supervisor is not there, rather we are going to be under the leadership of a good friend of mine, Michael. He has a mullet! However, the primary personal qualm that I have always had with wage labour on a Monday night is that it runs until ten o' clock. By the time I get home, the house is all but asleep and I am forced to go to bed so as not to disturb anyone. This effectively renders my Monday finished at five o' clock, when I start work, because there is no time to chill out from then on.

It's almost nine o' clock and time for breakfast; and with that the cycle begins. I'm still trying to get my head around why today seems to be so trivial and cartoonish. I feel little -- except for confusion. It is assumed by yours truly that the day will reveal its secrets of light-heartedness as it progresses.

Sucked In

As time progresses it is becoming increasingly astounding to me that people seem to be placing such exponential importance on petrol prices, especially at this early stage. It's almost difficult to comprehend the huge panic that will undoubtedly eventuate when the crash really comes. Just yesterday, in "celebration" of the re-opening of the Mobil station on the eastern side of Wairau Road in the North Shore and also to attract an early injection of profit, petrol was discounted by ten cents per litre at that particular service station. The cars queuing up at the service station resulted in a lengthy traffic jam that stretched far up the hill towards the Glenfield Road traffic lights. Effects were also felt in the Wairau Park commercial area, where the traffic was at a standstill much of the time.

It begs the question: was the petrol discount really worth the amount of time of which countless people were raped as a result of the special? Even those with excessively large gas-guzzling cars who filled their tanks from empty would have only saved around eight or nine dollars. Saving that amount of money is really not a big deal, particularly considering the overall amount of money that drivers would have been spending anyway. In a moment of weakness, and because I had some time up my sleeve, I myself ended up filling up my car. I was guided across the crowded forecourt as if I were the pilot Boeing being shown to the appropriate gate after having landed at an airport. The staff member then took my order and filled Oculus with twenty-one litres of petrol.

Full service, for once? Usually petrol stations would be expected to skimp on that as a cost-cutting measure. On this occasion, though, they were obviously so confident that their sale was going to achieve such a profit that they knew they needn't play it safe. The unusual provision of full service also strangely compelled me to go inside and buy an energy drink as I paid for my petrol. It tasted terrible and cancelled out the saving of roughly two dollars that I had made by queuing for fifteen minutes at that particular petrol station. This serves well to reinforce, as Mat explained to me, the idea that service stations nowadays draw a lot of their profit from their minimart retail facilities as opposed to the petrol. BP made an announcement last week saying that they are actually losing money on each litre of petrol sold.


One of National's most recent policy announcements made by their finance spokesperson and current MP for Helensville, John Key, was a statement of the possibility of lowering the petrol tax by five cents. The fact that politicians are zeroing in on this reinforces quite clearly the notion that the amount of importance that New Zealanders are placing on how much they pay for petrol is simply ridiculous. Also emphasising the pathetic nature of this situation is that even people like me -- whilst being very much sceptical about people in general being so concerned about petrol prices -- are also being subconsciously overcome by the fear factory that is the media and are consequently buying into petrol bargain specials and the like. I think Jeanette Fitzsimons denounced National's desperate petrol tax cut gesture best in the Herald article on the issue:

"...all our information suggests this is a long-term problem, that prices are going to continue to rise and the very worst thing you can do for New Zealand's fuel security in the future is to try to keep petrol artificially cheap when it isn't."

Weekend Whimsy

As the study break draws to a close, I have found myself putting to increasingly good use (note the sarcasm) the free days with which I have been gifted. Yesterday, for example, I didn't leave the house, except for a short period in the late afternoon when I went to the doctor's to have the lump on the outside of my right thigh checked out. She didn't know what it was, which is rather disconcerting. It is inconsistent with anything that she has seen before. The pain is gone now, but physically it is still there and I can feel the pressure of it against my muscles when I walk. There isn't a corresponding lump on the other side of my body. I am vaguely asymmetrical. It is a strange thing to contemplate.

I had an interesting non-related discussion with my doctor, though. We theorised as to why time seems to speed up as you get older, but then returns to the speed at which it was in your childhood when -- if -- you reach your senior years, as some of her patients have described. In the end we came to the conclusion that time passes at a relatively mild pace during your childhood, because everything that happens is new and unique and you are constantly learning new things. As you move through high school and into adulthood, life settles into a repetitive rhythm. It does progress, but you do not notice this progression as it is so gradual. This is why people talk about the days of their lives blurring together. The blurring produces the illusion that time is passing at a faster rate. A year has the potential to seem shorter than three hundred and sixty-five days, because clusters of days are merging together to form one day in your mind as a result of each day's huge similarities to the others. When -- if -- you reach your golden years of retirement, you break out of the day-to-day routine and start to look back on your life in reflection, and this in part causes time to return to the pace that was apparent when you were a child. I like my doctor.

A highlight of the past few days has been no doubt my acquisition of the outstanding Genesis album Platinum Collection for an exceptional bargain price. Nineteen dollars and ninety-five cents is what it cost me at Sounds Shore City. I'm telling you, that's not bad for a three-CD box set containing just under four hours of great progressive and pop music. Ironically, last week I had been considering buying this album to give to my dad on Father's Day -- at which point in time it was priced thirty-four dollars and ninety-five cents. I had thought even that was a bargain. It's really no surprise, then, that I selfishly bagged this album for myself on Thursday when I saw it priced so reasonably. I had always been sceptical as to whether I would enjoy Genesis' less progressive, more pop-oriented material from the late seventies, the eighties and the nineties (of which two thirds of Platinum Collection is composed) but the price on this prompted me to give up my prejudices and give it a try.

It was surprising to find that I actually knew many of the songs -- particularly the captivating Home By The Sea and Second Home By The Sea, segued together to form a radio-friendly epic riddled with creative elements that hark back to Genesis' more progressive phase from the early seventies, and a danceable beat to boot. The rest of the pop material on Platinum Collection is thoroughly appealing as well, with No Son Of Mine and I Can't Dance both deserving special mention. No doubt there's many more favourites that I have yet to develop. Let me just say that a good injection of sexually-charged-yet-intelligent eighties pop makes for a very refreshing break from some of the more conceptually heavy music that tends to dominate my cochlear diet. Also, who could possibly resist those electric drums?

I thoroughly recommend that -- if you are a Genesis fan, if you have at any point considered giving Genesis' music a try, or even simply if you enjoy guitar-driven eighties pop -- you bumble on down to Sounds and give this one a listen and a bit of thought as your next CD purchase. You can't really go wrong for twenty dollars; Platinum Collection is quite plainly tremendous value. To find out more about Genesis and have a listen to some free MP3s (mostly of material from their earlier progressive phase -- I highly recommend The Musical Box if you have the time), check out the entry for the band on Prog Archives.

Brace Yourselves

The slightly-disconcerting political heat is becoming increasingly noticeable with just over a week remaining until the 2005 General Election. I understand that during most of the election campaigns that have taken place throughout New Zealand's history, various people will have triggered off alarm bells, issuing the warning that "there's a lot at stake in this election." This is because during most elections there is a substantial amount that is at stake. While I don't deny that I feel much more involved in this election than any previous ones -- due to the fact that since 2002 I have developed a more intense interest in politics and also that I am now eligible to vote -- I am thoroughly confident when I say that a lot is resting on the results of this election. Indeed, I perceive that right at this moment in time, in regard to domestic politics, New Zealand is dangling in the most precarious position that it has been for over a decade. Tolerance, integrity, and lives are all at stake -- and you know what I am implying by bringing up those points.

Last night's final televised leader's debate served little purpose other than to provide the viewing public with what was basically a rushed sum-up of what the eight parliamentary parties had been stating throughout the entire campaign. Even having watched this debate and many others (I think possibly all the others that were televised), I still find myself contemplating the possibility that I may end up making my final decision when I'm actually in the polling booth. I don't think this reflects well on the nature of last night's debate. As I mentioned before, this is a very important election and certainly provides some justification for tactical voting. The voting public have a right to be provided with information of enough depth that they may make a solid and confident choice as to whom they are voting for.

I acknowledge that Mark Sainsbury did, quite frankly, an utterly superb job at chairing the debate. One can particularly appreciate this when one takes into account the raw aggression of many of the politicians involved. The aggression really served well to evoke the frantic and dire atmosphere of these concluding days of the election campaign, and emphasise how much is hanging in the balance. Also emphasising the outright sense of tensity was the reckless namedropping of the Exclusive Brethren by the left. The most notably aggressive individual was, unsurprisingly, that snarling little terrier clinging by his teeth to the trouser of our multicultural society, Winston Peters. When it came time for an ad break and Winston was in the middle of a lenghty spiel, he threw a number of complaints Mark's way: "No, no, no! Unfair, Mark!" Mark was of course obligated to insist that the ad break take place. As the TV cameras switched to an all-encompassing view of the politicians from the back of the crowd, Winston visibly raised his finger, and just before the sound cut out, the viewers caught air of Winston affirming "Now listen here, mate..."

Despite the fact that the voting public is virtually dependent on itself to be able to make a truely informed vote through individual research, it is getting late for such research now. Even if you have not done any research of your own, it is still certain that if you are above the voting age it would be an inexcusable travesty not to vote. It's your choice who to vote for -- I'm not going to boss you around in that respect -- but please do vote. I urge you to. It will only involve a diversion of a few minutes from your time-frittering lifestyle. The best part is that, for merely voting, you will have real grounds on which to complain about the political state of this country. You know, that's really good value for those of us who can't be bothered getting off our arses and engaging in some actual political activity, if you ask me.

Passive, Quiet And Oppressed By Managerialism

The education debate between the two major parties' respective education ministers -- Labour's Trevor Mallard and National's Bill English -- that I attended last night was an enthralling event no doubt brought about by the happenstance of the near-conclusion of the election campaign. It was a chance for the two politicians to really claw into each other in front of the audience of a handful of academia and a few more senior visitors. Forget the fact that many in the aforementioned audience were already solidly partisan in terms of their political views; the concept remains that it would have been most enjoyable to observe a verbal battle in the epic vein of lions ripping people to shreds in the Roman Colosseum.

The reality was that no such heated debate was to take place. Both parties seemed to have policies relatively centred on the retention of the current handling of the financing of tertiary education in relation to other parties. Max Calder-Watson of the Greens On Campus spoke out about that fact early on in the piece, going so far as to lay the claim that we should really have been seeing a debate between the Greens and the ACT Party rather than the two major parties. His comments were met by the audience with spontaneous, if somewhat sparse applause, as well as a few "here-heres."

Personally I felt that what Max said -- also the response that he received -- really summed up the feel of the evening. His words brought forward the concept that no significant debate was going to take place. The muted reply from the audience highlighted the fact that there were few people in the audience who had not already thoroughly placed their allegiance with either Labour or National. The Maidment Theatre was crawling with Young Nats and haunted by strangely-intimidating black-shirted Princes Street Labour members.

As you would expect, given that the building was filled with opinionated intellectuals, the real action was produced by those spectating. A very generous amount of time was given for questions. One student (obviously not a Labour voter) questioned Trevor Mallard on the merits of helping students succeed under the tertiary education system, only to "punish" them by taxing thirty-nine cents out of every dollar that they earn above sixty thousand. I think this yielded quite severe responses, in both the positive and the negative senses, from just about everyone in the theatre. Of course, this notably well-placed question that the student had asked gave Bill English the perfect opportunity to verbalise again that National's promised tax cuts will help New Zealanders both during and after their time in tertiary education.

Another memorable moment was Max Calder-Watson's quite unnecessarily-fiery-but-still-enthralling interrogation of Bill English. "Do you think, that you deserved your free education, but I don't, is that what you're saying?" He repeated the question several times with an emotional and rabid fervour, and in various forms, as Bill made multiple attempts to lay the foundations of a waffling, generic answer or to dodge the question altogether. In the end, Bill submitted -- "No... I don't [think I deserved my free education]" -- thus summoning the inevitable wash of laughter from the Princes Street Labour members and the remarkably excitable AUSA members in the front-centre row. Bill implied at one point that he thought too many of the questions were being asked by Princes Street Labour members (except he's one of those people who says "Princess Street Labour").

Largely an enjoyable evening, it was marred by only a few factors. Bill's seemingly cynical attitude to students -- caused by his generalised perception that we are apathetic towards the tertiary education issues that effect us -- was one such factor. The same man's constant seagull-flap gesturing as he spoke was another. Also, as I thought Alison put very well: "He speaks in superlatives." Serving to exemplify that fact is a quote taken from when he was talking about a group of high-ranking civil servants who had written up a report on tertiary education in New Zealand. He took the liberty of assuring us that the report is "not some ratbag opposition opportunism." The reactions from the audience ranged from entertained to stupefied.

Ironically, another one of the significantly bad aspects was the rabble of the audience itself, despite the fact that it had indeed produced most of the confrontations that had been of interest. Some students or small groups who put questions to the politicians seemed to insist on smothering the politicians as they were attempting to answer said questions, which seemed rather ridiculous. It was certainly frustrating to behold. Overall, though, the time I spent at the Maidment last night was time well-spent. I came out of it with an amplified perception of the major parties' relative lack of any real reformist policies in the area of tertiary education, however it was good nonetheless to gain a greater understanding of Labour's and National's general philosophies about the issue.

Let Me Just Check My Schedule

To those of you who are on study break right now -- can't you just feel it drawing ever closer and closer? The reinstatement of the university routine after its temporary hiatus, that is. Intimidating, isn't it? Well, if you hadn't thought about it until now, I have now got you thinking. I apologise profusely for burdening you with the concept that significantly unenjoyable circumstance this way comes. But it pays to think about things like this beforehand as it may well ease the transition. Always prepare for the worst, and you will not be disappointed when the worst inevitably eventuates. Well, you will not be as disappointed, at least. Trust me -- it works. I think.

I can already feel it all creeping back into the picture. Part of the beauty of the holidays is that you are able to cast off the usual structure of your life and engage in some reasonably freeform activity. It feels wonderful at the start. There is the potential for you to feel like you have relatively no cares in the world, in comparison to when you have that usual heap of cynicism dumped on top of you by the dehumanisation imposed by modern life. You organise and participate in activities in an impromptu manner, as opposed to cramming it between Politics lectures (throughout which you listen to your CD player anyway) or wage labour shifts. Time seems immaterial; sprawled out before you, you possibly have a totally blank canvas of two whole weeks.

However, once it becomes clear that the activities that you engage in during the holidays are taking on some kind of structural pattern, the holidays will start to piece themselves together over the scaffolding of a daily grind of their own. This usually becomes particularly apparent in the second week of the typical short break, and it's this time at which people such as myself start complaining that the holidays have let them down, and in some cases even wishing for a hasty return to the university routine despite the fact that they know they are not going to like going back. In this particular case for me, by the middle of the second week the impromptu nature of the first week has disappeared, and just about all activities now take place according to set times.

It's basically evident that, as long as we live within the constraints of time, scheduling and structure are always going to be an issue. Whatever day-to-day lifestyle that we attempt to live, it is in all cases eventually going to assume some sort of humdrum, linear and unprogressive form that will leave us dissatisfied and seeking transition to another lifestyle. This would appear to me to be one of the driving forces behind consumer society, as it "encourages" people to strive to achieve the most free (in many cases the most opulent) lifestyle. In an ironic twist, consumer society actually reinforces routine through the wage labour system, thus ensuring that humanity -- as well as the individuals within it -- will never, never be truely satisfied.

I think that the following poem sums up my feelings on the self-perpetuating cycle encompassing routine and status anxiety quite well. Indeed, I believe that it can be applied to our entire worldy existences. It's called Q and it was written by Roger McGough:

I join the queue
We move up nicely.

I ask the lady in the front
What are we queuing for.
'To join another queue,'
She explains.

'How pointless,' I say,
'I'm leaving.' She points
To another long queue.
'Then you must get in line.'

I join the queue.
We move up nicely.

Slander Propaganda

Despite the blanketing of much of the country with anti-Green and anti-Labour propaganda leaflets having been revealed today as the responsibility of "a secretive church," rather than the National Party -- as a number on the left would have undoubtedly wanted to believe -- it is fair to say that the damage has already been done. The news media can be expected to go to considerable lengths in order to discredit the source from which the false and radicalised information came, in an attempt to restore the political campaign to relative equilibrium. Unfortunately, a not-insignificant number of people will have read those leaflets and taken them at face value; the church will have already succeeded in swaying some votes with its falsified claims that are largely intended to evoke fear, particularly towards the Greens.

It appears to me that most people recognised before today's news that the leaflets were indeed not distributions of National, which should ensure that the party does not take the popularity hit that the media had somewhat predicted. Today's discovery serves only to reinforce National's position of safety. However, the mere fact that people didn't think the leaflets were from National doesn't necessarily mean that the messages were not taken in. I would pick that both Labour and the Greens stand to lose a fair bit of ground -- probably moreso the latter, given the particularly venomous nature of the leaflet devoted to "dealing with" them. You can read Green Party Co-Leader Jeanette Fitzsimons' rebuttal to the points raised in the leaflet here, as well as view the leaflet itself here if you are one of the few who hasn't received it.

After having been enlightened to the existence of the Exclusive Brethren (the Christian sect now known as responsible for the leaflet drops), I have taken great interest in finding out more about them. This has revealed a number of inconsistencies within their organisation, at least in New Zealand, that may point to the smear campaign as being of a much darker nature. From what I understand, having read the BBC article regarding the Brethren, members of the church are supposed to live their lives according to a "doctrine of separation" that involves keeping themselves away from anybody who is not one of them. The teachings of the Brethren virtually decree that members of the sect are "chosen ones," whilst anyone else is sinful beyond a tolerable level -- including other Christians -- and they are referred to as "worldlies".

What makes me suspicious is that as part of maintaining their separation from the sinful worldlies, the Brethren don't watch television, they don't listen to the radio, they don't read the newspaper, they don't use the Internet, and they don't vote. Combine these factors with the notion that these people are not permitted to associate with anyone outside of their sect and that they basically place themselves in a bubble separate to the rest of society, and a really weird image begins to emerge. Why would they want to have an influence over the rest of us when their belief system prohibits it? Even more strange to wonder about is how do they know so much about our current political situation given their supposed total ignorance of the media? To me at least, it appears that there may be more to this church than meets the eye. At the present moment, I can't help but suspect that in the Exclusive Brethren we could be looking at a highly secretive and subversive underground political organisation in the guise of a group of isolationist Christians.

The Ongoing Wow Is Happening Now

I finally got to watch Waking Life on Saturday night, after years of searching for the DVD and then engaging in a subsequent quest for something that would enable my PS2 to play Zone 1 DVDs. What can I say? It was an absolutely mind-bending and enlightening experience, and I still haven't got over that exhilirated feeling that you usually have right after walking out of a really, really good film. I knew that Waking Life was going to be right up my alley -- but I didn't think it was going to be this much up my alley. Seeing the film has even opened up a score of new alleys, however clunky and worn-out a metaphor that is. It has served to increase my awareness of how I specifically view the world, and in doing so has obviously changed my life.

Although I hardly dream as much as I used to -- either that or I simply don't remember them -- the dreams that I have had over the past three years have consistently been lucid ones. I've always embraced that lucidity. It has been enjoyable and practical, probably moreso the latter. For those of you who don't know, a lucid dream is a dream within which you have complete control over your own actions. This control is achieved through the actual realisation and comprehension of the fact that you are dreaming. Once you recognise that you are dreaming and that consequently you are consciously outside of the normal constraints of time and space, you can just go for it and do absolutely whatever.

One of the most significant advantages that I have found lucid dreaming provides, is that nightmares need no longer be scary. However, they will still sometimes be disturbing because of misfortune that other characters within the nightmare experience; or, as I usually find, because of indescribably gory imagery. My nightmares are the first environment in which I started dreaming lucidly. However I did not consciously train myself as I did not think it was possible. Rather, the heightened state of awareness within dreams just sort of came to me.

Since then I have found that relatively shortly after the beginning of a dream, I can discern from various factors that I am in fact dreaming and thus make myself conscious of that fact. The factors that I speak of are usually in the form of blatant inconsistencies with how things are in our waking lives. For example, the light switch example discussed in the film has always been an indicator for me personally. In my dreams I have never, ever been able to turn the lights on or off. I had thought for years that this was merely a personal quirk in my own dream state. To hear it discussed in the film was quite mindblowing indeed.

It is invaluable to be able to achieve a state of lucid dreaming, especially within a bad dream. Awareness of the fact that I am dreaming has, I have found, actually afforded me the ability to wake myself up at any moment of my choosing. If a dream is progressing in a direction with which I am uncomfortable, or if I am about to experience some circumstance of extreme misfortunate within the dream, I am able to open my eyes for a second time. It is a surreal feeling. In the context of my dreaming consciousness, I already have my eyelids open -- but if I concentrate really hard, I can open my eyes for a second time. At that point everything simply dissolves into the alleged reality of my bedroom. I'm sure you can understand that the feeling of opening your eyes again after they are already open is very hard to articulate in writing.

I'm somewhat ashamed to say that that is about as far as I have gone in terms of putting lucid dreaming to a practical use; the avoidance of discomfort. I have not (until seeing Waking Life) properly appreciated the clarity of my consciousness within my dreams, which I realise now could possibly be taken advantage of to explore deeper concepts such as the nature of my being. I've consistently used lucid dreams to do little more than engage in idiotic activities that I could probably pull off fairly easily in alleged reality without getting arrested anyway. One good thing about doing things like that in dreams though, is because your friends never see you doing it and as such cannot hold it against you. After seeing Waking Life I do feel somewhat guilty for abusing my dreams as some sort of playground, though.

The ability to have lucid dreams is a privelege with huge potential for practical use but I have never truely appreciated it. I can comfortably say that Waking Life has changed all that though. I can also totally recommend this film to anybody who hasn't seen it. I think it's fair to say that anyone who has ever stopped for even a second to contemplate the nature of their existence and their consciousness will enjoy this film just as much as I did, if not more. On those particular subjects, I have a lot more to say -- but I think I've articulated enough for one day. Expect more in the future. Also, to those people who have seen Waking Life, it would be very interesting to hear your thoughts on it and how it affected you.

Beyond Petroleum

So Hurricane Katrina has ravaged the southeastern United States. More than one thousand people are dead. Twenty thousand are reported missing. Two hundred thousand homes are underwater in New Orleans. Two hundred and thirty-three thousand square kilometres of land have been declared a disaster zone. Five million people are without power. The poor and black communities are over-represented in the statistics of those who have had their lives either ripped apart or taken away by the flood, leading to allegations that there is racism inherent in the upper echelons of power in the city. It is argued that there was not a proper evacuation plan in place for those who relied on public transport services -- which were severed by the hurricane -- to get around. Also, the media alleges, white people find things, black people loot things.

But it seems that down here in New Zealand -- and, needless to say, in many other countries as well -- our utmost concern is being devoted not to the human beings who have been truely affected by this massive tragedy, but to the rising petrol prices. The average price of gasoline in the States apparently rose by eleven cents per litre within five days of the hurricane reaching American shores. Eleven cents.

Unlike in the case of the Boxing Day tsunami, few of us are even making a token effort to care about the human cost of Hurricane Katrina. I think it would be fair to say that for the vast majority of New Zealanders at least, there exists a much more serious issue; that of being forced to cope with the fact that we're going to have to pull a few extra dollars out of our relatively-affluent car-driving arses each time we fill up at the pump. Worse still, there's that constantly nagging thought in the back of our minds that we could save the money if we actually made an effort and gave our public transport system a chance.

Our lack of emotional response to this disaster is also due to desensitisation. The swathes of misery in which the media constantly engulfs us in a largely-successful attempt to jade us, to get us to accept it as "just part of life," are increasingly beginning to appear to us as nothing but an ongoing drama. The human tragedy that is humanity. It's hard to take it too seriously. The storyline is getting clichéd.

A Trivial Interlude

There's two things that I learned from Liz's birthday party last night. Firstly, it is a smart move to block your ears and not participate during a mass balloon-popping ceremony, lest you compound your already heinous migraine and possibly extend it for another twenty-four hours or more. Secondly, visually entertaining pinatas are much more enjoyable to demolish than the standard ones.

Unfortunately, the only pseudo-decent camera phone image that I managed to get of last night's unforgettable aesthetically challenged amphibious avian pinata apparently exceeds the maximum message size by six kilobytes. Scaling it down simply would have not done it justice. Therefore I thought it would be better to confront you with a remarkably low-quality image taken in the night mode.

As you can see, the duck was made from two cardboard boxes taped together. Note the entertaining eye drawn on the side of the so-called head (although it isn't particularly visible in this useless photo). Even more entertaining was the fact that the eye on the other side had a much larger iris. The feathers are what made it overall, though. Cynthia came up with the ingenious idea of giving it curly feathers on its chest, and on its shoulders. If you aren't finding this funny, it's probably because you had to be there.

In other non-related-but-just-as-trivial news, my friend and co-worker Michael had his former majestic mop of hair crafted into a marvellous mullet for fundraising purposes. He has generated upwards of five hundred dollars on the condition that he keeps the mullet for a month. I was the only person he ran into not to immediately comment on it, as I for some reason was under the impression that he had actually willingly chosen the style and I was afraid of offending him. Besides, guys just aren't supposed to comment on each other's haircuts. It's just not right. I now take questionable pride in presenting you with a scaled-down image that does do the subject justice. Or not. My goodness, camera phones are overrated. Still, enjoy.

They Only Have Themselves To Blame

I went to visit my grandma at her home in Kelston yesterday. The only way I knew how to get there was to pass through Henderson. This clogged, rancid commercial outpost has been affectionately dubbed "the heart of West Auckland." Mum has always told me to wind up my windows and lock my doors when I drive through there. Henderson is full of mental people, she says. They allegedly have a potential to attack me. They do things such as talk in high-pitched voices, when in reality they don't actually sound like that. Some of them have darker skin than me. Worst of all, some of them are unemployed.

They have no jobs. Avert your eyes, Gary. They could pervert your mind into believing something stupid, like that there are actually things wrong with society besides all the unintegrated Asians. You've got to realise that every poor person on this street has chosen to be a bludger. They get plenty of money from the government, but then choose to spend it on drugs and... and pokies! All brown people who are in poverty are in that situation because of bad decisions that they have made themselves. It's not society's problem. You can particularly determine this by the fact that a lot of the people in Henderson are brown. Brown people have a tendency to do things wrong.

When I got to Grandma's, she started complaining irrelevantly about how if we had compulsory voting in New Zealand as Australia does, all the "meatheads" would be voting. Like the "Polys" next door -- who, she exclaims, "can't even put their rubbish out on the right day." Then she expressed her contempt for Tim Shadbolt initially becoming the Mayor of Invercargill -- apparently he only got in because he had so many "mates" down at the "local pub" who thought he was a "good bloke" and voted for him. Then she went on about how he's a breath of fresh air and a lovely guy, only to change her tone after a few minutes and mention that he lost the mayoral chains -- "which were gold."

If I'm going to be of one use to my family, it's going to be breeding prejudice ideologies out of the family line.