hunger management

Catching up with J last night (it's been some months since he left town), I tell him I'm busy and scattered of late. "Busy making zines and going for drinks with people like me," he says. Yes, good point. I shouldn't complain about my somewhat bourgeois life. I have bosses and supervisors who let me work at my own leisure. I have flexible working times. I have income. Many people don't.

I read this article while eating breakfast, and it was sobering. I'm not good at understanding economics, but hunger and poverty I can grasp. In a tutorial some weeks ago we talked about the global economy as a space of neo-colonialism. As always, some students argue that people from developing countries employed in multi-national off-shore factories are actually doing better off than they ever were/could, so the global market isn't such an evil, destructive, neo-colonialist force. But (I say now, in hindsight), what happens when the economy turns sour? Who's first to lose jobs/income? Is this not a colonialist narrative, where labour (or another sacrifice of time/energy/belief/custom) is traded for 'a better life', but when the political/economic climate changes, the coloniser backs away, goes home, and doesn't look back at the ruin and disruption caused?

Is it just me, or is this statement from a Unicef report (reported on in the article) really fucked up?

"The limited window of intervention for foetal development and for growth among infants and young children means that deprivation today, if not addressed properly, can have irreversible impacts on their physical and intellectual capacities, which will, in turn, lower their productivity in adulthood; this is an extraordinary price for a country to pay."

The price is paid by the country, and the cost is lower productivity. I get that they're talking to economists, governments and policy-makers, but surely those bodies (and the people in them) can grasp the idea of hunger too. Do they really need a nationalist spin in order to address the problem?

Closer to home, 'Income Management' is going to be introduced in Bankstown (and other places in other states). I guess the NT Intervention was such a raging success that it's being rolled out to Western Sydney (and other 'problem' populations). It's as if some people/governments believe that poverty, malnutrition, child abuse, and unemployment are self-generated problems that arise in 'disadvantaged communities'. Might disadvantage be a product of something larger than 'bad parents' or 'uneducated people'? Might we all be turning the knobs of that particular machine?

shiny and new

This weekend we moved furniture around. Over the past months 'new' furniture has appeared or migrated into other rooms. Things have been screwed into walls, and furnishings have taken on new roles in new spaces. In all this, new spaces are created from old furnishings. Always, in the days following re-arrangements, there is a feeling of newness and pride. We look around us and say "This works. I want to inhabit this space." This is an ongoing project which threads itself back through my (and our) previous homes, all the way to childhood. It was once my job to dust and polish lounge room ornaments. I felt accomplished and proud when, with my own hands, I made things appear shiny.

This weekend closes with me in the bath, reading Bachelard on 'home as universe'. It's cold outside, but I'm doubly protected by these walls and this bath water. Bachelard quotes Rilke, who speaks on the joys of dusting:

I was, as I said, magnificently alone... when suddenly I was seized by my old passion. I should say that this was undoubtedly my greatest childhood passion, as well as my first contact with music, since our little piano fell under my jurisdiction as duster. It was, in fact, one of the few objects that lent itself willingly to this operation and gave no sign of boredom. On the contrary, under my zealous dustcloth, it suddenly started to purr mechanically... and its fine, deep black surface became more and more beautiful. When you've been through this there's little you don't know! I was quite proud, if only of my indispensable costume, which consisted of a big apron and little washable suede gloves to protect one's dainty hands. Politeness tinged with mischief was my reaction to the friendliness of these objects, which seemed happy to be so well treated, so meticulously renovated.

Bachelard says: "there is the striking line with which it opens: 'I was magnificently alone!' Alone, as we are at the origin of all real action that we are not 'obliged' to perform."

I'm left thinking about the satisfaction of clean surfaces, freshly re-arranged rooms, the folding of cleaned clothes. These make spaces immense, and in the shiny surfaces within my homes, I project my wishes for a life in order.

For Rilke, cleaning was not an obligation, and it was only when his maid was away that he took to polishing his desk (and remembering his childhood passion). But I assume that many of us feel obliged to clean and keep an order within the home. My sometimes incessant ordering/tidying feels necessary, I need it so as to keep going, to give a pseudo-foundation to the mess of my days.

Perhaps the only space in which I can be 'magnificently alone' is in writing.

the strange case of the missing shoes

this morning, a friday, i mapped out my day. i would swim, i would pick up some groceries, i would return home for breakfast, i would get some papers together and take them to uni.

this week i've devoted all spare time to nutting out my (thesis) methodological issues. i need to firm this up, so that everything i write from now on fits a certain structure. otherwise i'll go on building this thesis - this house without foundations - forever. which, in some ways, is enjoyable. because when one room collapses, i just take residence in another. i rebuild something different. something more interesting, for now. an ongoing process. but the thesis isn't. maybe the ideas are, but the thesis has to finish. and i think i'm ready to mix some cement.

it's a little late, and perhaps a little crazy, to add laclau and mouffe's 'discourse theory' as one of the foundations. but i think i can. besides, they're into bricolage. and bricklaying too (see paragraph 8).

anyway, i swim and i emerge clear-headed and ready to push on with this day. i shower and dress and then... "where are my shoes?" i left them in the change room, as always, but they were gone. i have to explain my searching behaviour to a very elderly man getting changed and he tells me to go to lost property. with an outstretched arm he offers me his flip-flops. i decline, but i pause to enjoy this moment. he seems around 90, is bent over, with small feet and a japanese accent.

i speak to the blonde staff member, who is my favourite. a few weeks ago she convinced me to buy a monthly pass: "it's getting warm!" i explain my shoelessness. she apologises and says that this hasn't happened before. "were they new shoes?" "no, they were old".

so my plan changes, and now i walk home, in bare feet - "do you have far to go?" "no, just down the road". i've never walked barefoot on these streets before. a new feeling. the path holds the warmth of a nice spring morning. i remember that one of my favourite pair of socks are inside the shoes. my shoes, with soles wearing thin. but they probably had another 6 months in them.

the woman at the pool is shaking her head. "why would someone take them?" she answers her question: "i guess there are some weirdos around". she takes my number. she's going to keep an eye out and watch people as they're leaving, to check that they're not wearing them.

Laclau and Mouffe tell us that any 'thing' has multiple forms of 'discursive articulation' - "whether this stone is a projectile, or a hammer, or an object of aesthetic contemplation depends on its relations with me—it depends, therefore, on precise forms of discursive articulation" (1987).

and so, my shoes come to be missing shoes, or stolen shoes. "black and blue", i write on the piece of paper. the missing shoes generate various encounters, exchanges of words, sympathies, and comparisons - "i had a pair of flip-flops stolen from a pool once, on a really hot day", she tells me. we share moments of confusion. and here's me, talking to her, talking to the lifeguard, finding out which secret wall holds the 'lost and found' collection. here's me, furthering my relationship with my local pool, its people and its spaces. i write my name and number on the piece of paper. i belong here, more local than ever. i walk home in bare feet, more local than ever.

freedom

this morning i read a book. before i got out of bed and started the day, i flicked through a hundred pages or so. it was a nice way to start my weekend. because now i've many new phrases and sentiments to return to throughout the weekend. Like this:

"Once upon a time I was always talking of freedom. At breakfast I used to spread it on my toast, I used to chew it all day long, and in company my breath was delightfully redolent of freedom. With that keyword I would bludgeon whoever contradicted me; I made it serve my desires and my power" (Camus, The Fall, p97 of my copy).

Now the sun is shining. I just ate some bread with rosemary and potato in it. Prior to that I swam some laps. Prior to that I worked on chapter 5. now i'm going to wonder down the road for coffee and sunshine.

rolling with the punches

Dutch boarder tells me that he wants to move out. Tomorrow he's looking at alternative accommodation. He feels like he now knows what he needs in terms of accommodation. This is the second housing agreement he's broken since arriving in Australia. We agree to break the contract if he pays another 2 weeks rent, giving us time to find a replacement. Just now, at midnight, he argues why he may be justified in paying less. He says he's concerned about his finances. "What if I can take the other place tomorrow". What if you can't? I tell him why we need to agree on a date. I'm speaking firmly, rationally, explaining that his actions affect us and we need a firm plan so that we all know our responsibilities for the next two weeks. He sees that he is disrupting us. I tell him that yes, this is very disruptive to me. He mentions his sore back (blaming our futon) as a potential escape clause. "You might think I'm looking for excuses". "Yes, I think you're looking for excuses". He's a little taken aback, and we end, eventually, with him agreeing to 2 weeks. Though he calls me from my room one more time, to try one more line of argument. I feel my own Dutch blood boil. I re-clothe and re-enter the lounge room. "No". I speak of fairness. And fairness for all of us. His request is not fair on us. His actions have consequences. If he has to pay double rent for one week, then he has to wear that as a consequence of his actions, his decisions, and his breaking of the agreement. We have offered a compromise. Others would not. This is only fair. "Good night".

Who is this me that's spouting such things? This diplomatic and somewhat paternal voice sometimes arises. It's me having an adult moment in which I appeal to fairness, responsibilities, and courtesy. It's me getting what I want. It's me enjoying my own performance of getting what I want. Most days I wouldn't use these words and justifications, and it seems unlikely that they would work if someone used them on me. Though I probably wouldn't ask for such leniency. I'd probably 'accept the consequences' of changing my mind. Maybe that's my Irish blood.

Trying to locate where these moments come from is as ridiculous as racialising them. Highlighting the bloodlines of my deeds is just one tactic among many (like appealing to my star sign, the habits of my parents, or the environment in which I grew up) to tell myself and others that my deeds have roots deeply embedded in this person I call myself. But maybe my performance is just a tactic for getting what I want, here and now - always a momentary eruption. Such performances are guided by certain events or feelings (like tonight's tiredness). Sometimes I witness them as though I'm still in yesterday's armchair.

quark and raspberry jam

bagels with quark and raspberry jam. a short black coffee. the rolling stones gimmee shelter. everything is fine.

the backs of my legs are still wet from the rain that fell sideways and almost ruined me and my umbrella. on the couch now, and the cat sleeps at my feet. i haven't had quark and raspberry jam since this time 4 years ago. it's as though melbourne housemates J & M are with me now. rain outside, coffee inside, and tomorrow we'll probably take a stroll to the markets at the collingwood children's farm. we're likely to buy cheese, some bread, and one of those trays of almonds, raisins and dried peach. but today, in my shopping bags, are 3 cheeses. some habits don't die, they just adapt to new surrounds.

last weekend i stumbled and tripped myself up. it was a drunken stumble over a man. i spent the week frowning at myself. maybe i can blame D for giving me that book which is all about a teenage boy crushing on another boy and being too shy and scared to follow it through. it could be one of any smiths songs really. 'why didn't i give him my number... why didn't i rest my hand on his leg... why did i tell him that thing about that guy...' but anyway, so what.

last night i drank beers in surry hills with S who reminded me that 'relationships' are unnecessary. he doesn't want one. most of the time i don't either. but i stumbled, tripped, and forgot myself. which is okay. because it was a moment of tragedy to write up, reflect upon, and file away for later. S says he hates all novels because too often they focus on ideals of love, romance, and needing to be with someone. it reminds me of that book, and most other books i've read in the last few years. not to mention all those films and songs. was this just me trying on another narrative?

the man was pretty lovely. there was instant mutual attraction. and someone (but not me) could write it into a first chapter of a something. i was gin drunk, talking a lot, and very much forgetting everything beyond our transaction. in those moments i poured myself into him. when he left, i was left empty. i'd attached myself to his eyes, hair, lips, everything. i was gone.

anyway, S tells me i don't need that and i believe him. nancy sinatra is now telling me about some velvet morning. i wonder if that cheese on the bench has had time to soften. i contemplate a nice hot bath, a novel, and the caress of more fictions.

Pina, a film, a review

“What are we longing for?” This is what Pina Bausch asks of her dancers. This might also be what her dancers ask of the film audience. Pina is dead, but it’s not as simple as that, and nobody here speaks of her death. This is not a documentary that recalls her life but an artwork that extends and preserves her contribution to modern dance.

This film doesn’t rely on a typical memorial narrative, and its impact comes less from what the featured dancers/friends say of Pina, than what their bodies express through dance. Dancers voice short reflections of their time with Pina, yet in these scenes the dancer’s voice is played over a silent headshot. They breathe and twitch, offering an internal monologue. And then they dance a tribute to Pina.

The film has a unique rhythm that I didn’t fall into right away. It’s not a typical rhythm, but one that jolts, sprays and falls back into itself. Much like Pina’s choreography. For me, a dancehall scene was the moment I fell. Dancers are seated around the edge of a room, gradually rising (alone or in groups) and walking to the centre, towards a camera which might double as a mirror. They push hair from their faces, show their teeth, suck in their stomachs. This is a rehearsal but also a scene of self-reflection. Perhaps it speaks of the inward gaze of dancers, watching themselves as they might be watched. This gentle scene spirals into a loud, gyrating, dance. At this point, I also let down my guard and fall into the film.

By asking ‘what are we longing for?’ we learn that Pina is about unspoken desires that take hold of bodies and express things in new ways, beyond words, or perhaps surpassing the limits of a vocabulary.

Water, rocks, nature, industry… the dance moves from enclosed performance spaces to open public space amongst commuters and other daily rhythms. Scenes from a performance (Café Müller) are interspersed with dances alongside trains, highways, and swimming pools. The natural environment is there but often constructed, with sand and soil inside theatres, as well as rivers, rocks and rainfall. Emotions climb as more water falls, splashes and spits onto dancing bodies. As a three dimensional film, the audience can’t escape getting wet.

Whilst some dancers share words about Pina before they dance, some just stare into the camera, breathing. I found the unspoken moments most affective here as this makes it difficult to read their dance to Pina. We’re reminded that these are not simply performances, but conversations; a communication between dancers, students, teachers, and friends. We’re reminded that sometimes emotions can’t be voiced, but are best worn through our gestures and our art.

A shy dancer recalls Pina asking her “Why are you frightened of me? I didn’t do anything to you”. Then we cut to her dance where there is no trace of fear; only brash, intense, flaunting. In such moments we become Pina. Watching proudly, we are touched.

The film begins with seasons, and these seasons, in the form of dance, appear throughout the film. We’re reminded of the changing environment and how this shapes expressions and uses of our bodies. Years pass with seasons, and so we have the passing of time. This film, these emotions, and these relationships (sometimes exceeding 20 years), are a passing of much time. We know from the dancers (speaking and not speaking) that this is all about Pina. And we learn that Pina is all about everyone, because she knows that in human gestures lie strange maps of emotion, honesty, and desire.

Pina asks her dancers to give honesty. They dance (for) her, for us, but also for themselves, in celebration of a lost friend. Yet any expression of loss is complicated by the fact that Pina is still very much alive in this film, and in the bodies of the people she touched.

(photo by William Yang)