Roll Up! Roll Up!

I'm rediscovering the delights of Carnivale, the show that seemed impenetrable at first but with a second viewing reveals magnificent rich wonders of splendiferous splendidry. I can't gush enough. I think I'm in love again.

It reminds me of Star Wars without the vein of pubescent male fantasy. There is no comparing of light sabres here, but there is a "force" of a kind driving the warriors, Ben Hawkins and Justin Crow, towards their ultimate struggle for supremacy in the battle between the darkness and the light. Brother Justin, coaxed away from a suicide attempt, is shipped off to the local psychiatric hospital for some inhumane treatment, where he begins to reveal that he can make strange things happen indeed. Meanwhile, Mr Dooley is on the radio telling the story of this man, who had his church burned down, while trying to seduce his subject's sister. The source of infernal injustice probably stems from the town councillor, Val Templeton, who, as a representative of the people, either orchestrated the fire or at least turned a blind eye to it. But God was clear to Brother Justin and instructed him to set up some o' that ol' time religion in this house, where the "Okies" could worship the Lord.

On the road, young Ben Hawkins is doing his best to resist the attempts of the blind and enigmatic dream reader to encourage Ben to harness his gifts, though when it is revealed that Ben is practicing his magic on his own in healing a broken arm, the analyst flies into a fury. He has big plans for Ben. Evil ones. Somehow Ben falls into a disused mineshaft and comes across the much talked about Hank Scudder, then upon following him out into the open, finds he is living a WWI dream he once had. As a private, he dons tin hat and rifle and wades through the bodies of the trench. Brother Justin appears above the parapet and is just about to knock off his rival, Ben, when suddenly the bear of Russian Communism rears up and does away with the preacher.

There is so much symbolism and biblical reference in this show, set amongst the dustbowl of the American southwest of the 1930s, where a sandstorm knocks out a town for an afternoon, where a woman dancing with a snake sends men into a spin, where a town full of souls called Babylon overflows with angst and murders one of the Carnival folk in retribution for provoking lust of a different kind which couldn't be satisfied in this place full of men.

Carnivale is brilliant, but you don't have to be at least 5 feet tall to get on this ride. Thankfully the diminutive Samson is running the show.

Dust to Dust?

Highlight of the day: Billy Bowden losing his composure and yelling "Fuck!" after he was hit by the ball after a sweep shot, then realising quite a few people saw it and apologising to all and sundry (which these days would be "all and extra" - geddit?) It was good, umpires don't say fuck enough I think. Wouldn't it be better if instead of raising the finger to signal a batsman is out, they just said "fuck off, you were plumb." Instead of the cry of "No-Ball!" when a bowler oversteps the mark, they turned to said bowler, returning to his mark and quietly informed them to "lengthen your fucking run up fuck-face," "Wide" could become "fucking rubbish - do it again." For third umpire decisions, imagine a screen 30 feet wide saying "FUCK OFF" in big red letters for "out" and "YOU LUCKY LITTLE FUCKER" for not out.

Imagine that.

3 In The Com Box!

It's all a bit excessive. Why they've gone from the traditional "sparring partner" duo set up of previous summers to this new "menage a trois" arrangement beats me. Maybe they're trying it out like a new mystery ball in the nets, or they've been listening to Rufus Wainwright who, apparently, "thinks three's company." (Buy Want One). Today we had Slats AND Tony Grieg AND Chappelli ALL AT ONCE ruminating on the merits of the leg gully position as employed for the short ball to Justin Langer. Well he's a nuggety little bugger alright and notched up 82 before trying one too many cut shots for 4. "Freddie" Flintoff was the pick of the bowlers from what I saw and the English fielding has come a long way since the days of Phil Tufnell. Damien Martyn, who Kerry O'Keefe on the ABC insisted on calling "Dean Martin," manages to get himself out in ways that are as elegant as his standard strokeplay. Clip off the toes for 4 - effortless. Cut shot over point for another 4 - effortless. Nice little bit of catching practice for first slip - effortless. Now, for that easy stroll back to the Pavilion... For everything else there's Ricky Ponting, who's currently batting like a man who really knows how to bat well. Hope the weather stays fine in Brisbane. Wonder how long they can keep up the threesome in the com box. Though with the "tag team" arrangement they could keep commentating until, well, Armageddon. Imagine that! Heals and Benaud and (guest) giving us a run down on the movements of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse as it actually happened!!!

Ashes to Ashes

The Ashes. It all starts tomorrow. So many questions. Who will get the heads up for the third bowling position for Australia? What's this new English opener like? How long can I sit through the channel 9 commentary before reaching for a razor blade? How many times will John Howard secretly wish the Poms give us a royal thrashing in each and every session? Why is an over in which there are no runs conceded called a "maiden"? Why haven't they changed it to a "chick" in order to keep up with modern trends? Why, then, isn't she wearing hipster jeans that have a waistband which falls around her thighs? Where are the ridiculously oversized sunglasses that actually make her look quite stupid? Shouldn't she have a "bad bitch" bumper sticker on her Hyundai Excel? And that techno blaring out of it with all the windows down makes you feel like you were in some shit nightclub that thought 80s remixes were warranted. Well, no, they are not. And any song by some guy called "DJ Utzi" is out too. That's right - this umpire's raised the finger on that one, and fined him 3/4 of his match fee. That way, he can't afford to buy anymore studio time and record that second song of his.

Love to all.

Time's Barrier

What was happening before the Big Bang? The biography of Stephen Hawking, co-authored by John Gribbin and Michael White, likes to draw the "North Pole analogy" in answering this one: if you were a few yards from the North Pole and walked due north, pretty soon you would be going south. You can't get any "norther." Similarly, Gribbin and White say, if you had a time machine and set the controls for the Big Bang, it would reach Planck time and then start moving forwards in time again. It reaches a barrier. There simply is no "before."

This is a difficult one to grasp. Time seems so integral to our world that it is hard for us to imagine it simply "beginning" 13.7 billion years ago. Maybe that is exactly the point: that it is integral to "our world." If we were travelling in a spaceship moving at the speed of light, we'd age slower than if we were to stay on earth, as in the famous "twin paradox," for instance.

There was an earnest Bishop long ago, bless him, James Ussher, who read the bible and calculated that the world started at 6pm Saturday 22 October 4004BC. He arrived at this notion by counting all the "begats." I once met a student who was writing a thesis on why he thought Ussher had it right. I don't know who was worse, the student himself, or the faculty that let him pursue such an absurd notion. Oh well, here's to academic freedom I suppose. And the freedom to waste time.

Acronyms and Apparitions

David Fontana's "Is There an Afterlife?" is nothing if not comprehensive, as the subtitle suggests. The author sifts through all of the major areas of evidence we have from non-religious traditions - hauntings, apparitions, the work of mediums, Instrumental Transcommunication, NDEs, OBEs, and reincarnation - in an attempt to give the reader a broad summary of how bodies like the Society for Psychical Research approach their field. On so many occasions, he introduces a subject and just as quickly refrains from discussing it at any length due to limitations of space. Even so, it's a weighty book, both in stature and by the nature of its topic. I had come across some of the material before, particularly on Near Death Experiences and on reincarnation. The area that was new to me was ITC - Instrumental Transcommunication, and particularly the unusual realm of EVP - Electronic Voice Phenomena. (It appears that you are not truly researching the paranormal until you have familiarised yourself with about 10 000 acronyms). Dr Anabela Cardoso began experimenting with this form of paranormal research after the son of some friends had died, and after some initially promising results, decided to harness the potential another acronym, DRV (Direct Radio Voice) and obtained even more impressive results. The author was present at some of the sittings and was suitably "wowed" by the outcome.

Despite having witnessed much paranormal phenomena himself, Fontana does us the courtesy of holding back from evangelising about the whole thing, remaining moderate and balanced throughout the entire book. Admittedly, I approached the book in a fairly childish manner, hoping to have some answer to the question which the title poses after 450+ pages of Fontana's work. But it remains a matter of faith, as I should have known. Ghost stories are dramatic and impressive, but the reader needs experience to come to their own conclusions. I remain agnostic, though hopeful that the afterlife is as wonderful as the traditions say, and open to people like me who have spent their lives sitting on the theological fence.

The Philosophy Exam

There was a story going around at my old school of a student who, in a philosophy exam, wrote "today is too nice to be couped up in an exam hall so I am going outside to sit under a tree," in response to the question, whatever it was. They then left the exam hall, and when the results came in, found they had received the highest mark.

It's the ultimate cop-out and I can't believe the examiner bought it. "I am too much of a lazy shit to study for what will no doubt be a difficult exam so I'll come up with some half-arsed response to a question I don't understand."

Or, "I don't feel like sitting down and writing for half an hour."

You can see where this is leading can't you?

Have a great week.

Non-local Consciousness

There are books I should read. Michael Talbot's "The Holographic Universe," anything by David Bohm, that one on the shelf at the library on consciousness, "Going Inside."

I am intrigued by the idea that the brain acts as a mechanism which filters out unwanted stimuli and enables us to maintain sanity. That consciousness is inherently "nonlocal," and the brain merely a receiver. In Paramahansa Yogananda's "Autobiography of a Yogi" there is the story of his guru, Sri Yukteswar, who acts as a "human radio" and picks up the thoughts of others at a distance. You have to suspend your disbelief to enjoy that book, things happen which rational Western man would be at great pains to explain, but it is truly a classic of spirituality.

There is a guy (or girl) using a bandsaw across the creek and it is 9:00 Saturday night. I think the worst, and worry they are in fact sawing up a human body. Who works at this time? Who blogs at this time?

The premise behind a Near-Death Experience or an Out of Body Experience is that the mind packs up and leaves and goes somewhere else for a while, then comes back to its home. Loads of researchers have written about these phenomena. I think Jung touched on it but I can't find his book in the detritus of my room. Kay Redfield Jamison - I recall a story of her consciousness leaving her body while ill.

So where is consciousness if the brain is just a receiver? Are we trapped in our bodies? I quite fancy going on a tour of the solar system. Care to join me?

Man o' Sand to Girl o' Sea

I've got the Go-Betweens on my mind because I've just bought their "Bellavista Terrace" (a "best of" compilation - a cop out, I know, but I wasn't musically aware in the eighties and so missed their rise to, well, where exactly? I also wasn't fully conscious for some of the eighties so that's another excuse to add to my reasoning). But they were obviously brilliant and I should check out some of their "real" albums.

The title reminds me of a stanza I once wrote:

Night falls, and I dream
That your raven-black hair
Seems like a flaming red beacon,
Magnetised,
And I navigate onshore.

The subject was a girl I was once besotted with, her raven-black hair not quite reaching her shoulders, though she once shaved it off and her flatmates thought it was a sign of developing lesbianism - "Is there something you want to tell us, G____?" Later she would ask me that same question - "Is there something you want to tell me?" But I mumbled something stupid and changed the subject. That was the big chance that I blew. These days I care enough to write a blog about it but not enough that it consumes my every waking moment. I think it is significant, a turning point in my life, but I've been sleeping well lately.

I should have said that her hair had become a beacon because it was so obvious that I was in love with her, and I was magnetised to it, though I was navigating in the dark onshore while she slowly floated out beyond the breakers. Man o' Sand to Girl o' Sea. The first line of that song is "I want you back," followed by "I feel so sure of our love I'll write a song about us breaking up. The traffic lights on the street of love have just turned red. Turned re-ee-ed." I think that Robert Forster was as confused about love as I was at one point. Why did I have the brakes on? Turns out it was a good thing. I looked forward to her last birthday so I could send her nothing and just let it sail by without lifting a finger. This inaction, characteristic of me lately, is essentially why she left in the first place. I should have said, I should have said... Oh fuck off.

Was there anything I could do? I could dive for her memory once again. That way, in my mind, we wouldn't have to part company... but -

Don't the sun look good today?