In the midst

I am still here, somewhere. No, wait, that’s a really sad way to start a weblog entry.
I made time some weeks ago to have a two day retreat at a monastery to get some clear head space. There was some of that and some serious consideration of a couple things that are really alive in my spirit at the moment (in both positive and negative ways). What I haven’t had is the space to really resolve or process these things in a satisfactory way. I am determined though to get into a routine of physical and mental practice. I’m going three days a week to yoga and beginning to meditate regularly.

Meanwhile, we’ve started a new campaign at the Teachers Federation and I’m the defacto social media manager. We filmed these ads a couple months ago; they are running right now on Australian television and cinemas. I’m managing the twitter feed @TFtmd

Misinformation

My web host is changing hands and, for whatever reason, I’ve not been able to access the back-end of my weblog for weeks now. However, it seems to be back and I’ve got some things to write about in the next few weeks. Meanwhile, here is a bit of political satire I wrote and filmed last month at work.

Some Are Evergreen

I’m still sorting through a lot of old files and letters; I wrote this from New York in 1999.
It is Sunday morning, the last day of October. Somewhere in the city beyond (and beyond the city) one Person is awake and thinking; he wants to build a shelf for the closet—his Wife has too many hats. One Woman has forgotten where she put her slippers; her dog remembers, though he tears one slightly at a seam. One Man is lifting up a potted plant for the Lady across the counter; His Father was a florist in Brussels. One Minister is Praying over his sermon; some of the youth will not appreciate it, some of the deacons disapprove, some of the elders speak thoughtlessly over coffee—one Woman and two Men will change the direction of their lives. One Boy is waiting in the hamper to frighten his Sister when she walks into the room; their Parents work late and sleep still. One Father Kisses his Wife and Daughter good morning; he has to work today at his newsstand. One Man is cold on the sidewalk with a group of Friends, their breath steams with the life of speaking. Outside their windows this river flowing by becomes quickly an ocean—carrying leaves from the front of my window. All my faceless leaves and these People who are formless from this room, yet speak and pray or remain silent—these fragments form a whole of unknown parts. Someone rings a bell in the distance. All those people are happening at this one moment; their actions and decisions behind those actions move them along to the next moment…the next, the next, yet they are all here in this one space of time. My fingers tap out words for them and the next moment comes.

Beyond the window, the trees, the river, and every city are People I know and hold dear. They are waking, have made a breakfast, are praying, speaking, shaving, reading, loving, watching the leaves. All this activity—all the activity behind windows in all the cities, yet we are connected like the leaves on a tree. We remain and grow and color; no matter the distance between branches we feed from the same stem. We are alive and have grown together from green buds. Though every leaf is still separate. Among this short list of kindred people—every one a distinct voice, face, prayer, love, yet still all connected to the branches—still breathing and drawing life from a single source.

It is Sunday morning, the last day of October. Outside my widow the calendar of nature is turning to Fall. I am inside with a voice. My voice is not loud, perhaps it should speak with more force. I am inside with a prayer. My prayer is not always spoken well, perhaps it should pray with more faith. I am inside with a love. My love is not loud; my love is not enough prayed for. There is a calendar in the leaves and we are all connected to the Branch. I cannot sit here inside the windows and call for Spring. There is a turning season; I do not know what each season brings. We are connected to the Branch and the tree is living. The sun breaks through and shines on my table. Leaves fall; some are evergreen.

Short Story Misadventures

I was musing recently about the difficulties I had in my university Short Story course…perhaps more than difficulties…actually, nearly complete wash-out. I’ve just, coincidentaly unearthed a handful of floppy discs from the era containing evidence of this. Here is a draft of ‘Inside and Out’, an assignment for the class; my special favorites are the typo ‘grandmother’s doom’ and ‘(insert epiphany)’. I’m not sure if that was later added.
Eric felt sick, the odor was a cross between ammonia and the locker room at school. It was rather hot as well, but all the residents were bundled up in a patchwork array of sweaters and blankets as if the windows were open. He walked up to the nurse’s station. On a chair unworthy of her size sat a hefty nurse reading a cheap paperback. She didn’t seem to notice him standing there. He cleared his throat but the sound was muffled by one of the residents calling out for coffee. There was no bell so he tapped his class ring on the counter a few times. The nurse stuck a brochure about Tahiti in her book and glanced up with a pre-packaged smile. “I’m here to see Mrs. Mazza.” Eric said. “Oh hello honey,” she said, “you’re Nina’s grandson aren’t you?” Eric nodded. “I knew it,” she said. “I could tell by your facial features, your nose and eyes and things.” Eric wondered if she thought he didn’t know about facial features. “You just let me run in and get your grandmother situated for visitors and I’ll be back in a jiffy” She stood and shuffled down the hall. Relieved to be rid of its burden, the vinyl chair re-inflated its foam stuffing. Eric sat down on a couch by the window and looked around the room. Several people were reading battered magazines that were current several months ago; others just sat staring at the snow outside. Eric looked through the window. It’s so cool and fresh outside he thought. He glanced down at the layer of dust on the sill and picked up an old copy of Better Homes and Gardens. In the middle of an article on composting, a husky old man with one leg ran his wheelchair into Eric’s knees. “Ho! sorry son, my piloting skills are a bit rusty.” the man said. Eric began to speak, but the man took off down the hall almost pummeling into a frail lady with a walker. The nurse returned, had she purchased that uniform before her present size? “Grandma’s all ready to see you.” she said. “She’s had her nap but remember the medication she’s on makes her a little nappy all the time.” “That’s O.K.,” Eric said, “I won’t be staying long.” She took Eric by the arm and pointed down the hallway. “Right down there in 117, her roommate Elma’s asleep but she’s almost deaf so don’t worry about noise.” Eric walked down the hallway; the nurse’s chair voiced a complaint about being sat upon and a piercing voice again called for coffee. He dodged the passing of the wheelchair warrior returning up the corridor by ducking into a sterile smelling broom closet. Several residents sat in the hall gazing at the floor or mumbling to themselves as if the floor was going to leave them or the wall could converse. “Do you have Marcy?” one woman asked imploringly. Eric stopped and looked at her, a wild tuft of her dry hair swirled round in the currents of the heating vent. She seemed surprised that he stopped; her bony hand shot up and grasped Eric’s arm. He wondered where she picked up such a firm grip. “Marcy,” she said, “What have you done with her Roger?” Eric loosed himself and walked down the hall as the woman continued to speak to him. “You’ll be sorry about this later Roger.” said the woman, “Time will catch up with you and you’ll have to let Marcy go” Eric didn’t hear any more, he turned and entered his grandmother’s doom. The blinds were half drawn casting a diffuse pale light. Eric crossed to the far bed where his grandmother lay. She was again napping, her kindly face resting on a pillowcase she had made herself. Quietly, a little cu-cu clock on the wall ticked to itself. Elma seemed to be soundly asleep in the other bed, a mild snore escaped every few breaths. Eric sat down on a stool beside his grandmother, it gave a sharp creak announcing his arrival. She stirred and looked up at Eric. For a moment her eyes focused on him but then, as if he had vanished, she looked past him through the window. “Conrad,” she said, “thought you’d come out to see mama?” “No Mama,” said Eric, “It’s me Eric, your grandson.” “Oh it’s so good to see you again, your father and I thought you’d never be coming back from that old army.” Eric didn’t know much about senility but he supposed he should humor her or else she might become upset. “Oh, uh, Mama, it’s hard to get away from base but you know I want to come and see you more often.” He shifted uncomfortably on the stool, as if he’d just lied to a close friend. “I know,” she said, “You’ve got a lot of responsibility on your hands. I understand you can’t come running back home every weekend.” He wondered how far she’d fall back into this. She sat up in the bed and picked up a shawl she was working on knitting. Her fingers flew into action, agilely forming each knit with the precision of an expert weaver. “I wish your father would let me get back outside.” she said, “But he says, ‘Nina you’re just too sick and need to stay in bed.’ I’d argue, but I suppose he’d just worry if I was out working.” She put down her knitting and looked outside with a slight sigh. “Look out there, I could at least help plant in the garden.” Eric glanced at the snow covered ground. A group of well insulated children were making a snowman across the street. “Where’s my teefh?” Elma shouted. She bolted out of her bed and began to search around the room. “I wish they’d take that crazy woman away.” Nina said “I don’t know why were putting her up. You think she’d be in a hospital.” Elma stooped over to search in a cabinet, tossing various memorabilia into a pile on the floor. “Your teeth are in that little jar by the picture frame dear.” Nina said. She pointed with her needle to a jar containing a set of teeth in a blue-green liquid. “Though I don’t know what you want them for now, it’s hours till dinner.” After swishing them around in the jar a few times, Elma fished out her teeth placing them in her mouth with a squelched sucking sound. She then wrapped herself up in loose blankets and lay back down in bed. “Anyway,” Nina said, “As I was saying parson, the more you preach on sin the less people are going to want to hear you.” Eric looked down at his faded jeans and climbing boots, wondering what kind of preacher would make calls dressed like this. “I’ll tell you one thing.” Nina lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned toward Eric, he hunched over in the stool closer to her. Her grey eyes looked into his with the strictest of confidences. “Some of the people in church,” she glanced around furtively to make sure nobody was listening, “some of the people really need to hear about sin. I know about some of the things people have done. If their deeds could just be brought out in the open maybe they’d repent. I could tell you some things…” She trailed off as a nurse entered the room and walked to Elma’s bed. She was carrying a rubber basket in from which she picked out an handful of pill bottles, emptying out their contents onto a little plastic tray. “Time for your medicine Elma.” shouted the nurse. Elma pitched over and cast a wary glance at the cheerful nurse. “Take em’ yourself skinny!” said Elma. With this she rolled up armadillo-like, protected by the shell of her blankets. The smiling nurse murmured something under her breath and walked out of the room. “You see,” said Nina, “if you’d just spend more time on your vocabulary you’d have less trouble with the reading assignments.” She pulled out a Reader’s Digest and proceeded to quiz Eric on a word list. After about ten minutes she seemed satisfied of his capability and put the magazine away. “Marcy!” The old woman wheeled her chair down the other side of the hall. “I’ve got the cards if I can just find you.” She passed by the door, pausing long enough to say hello to Edna. “Hello Edna,” she said, “How’s Howard?” Edna popped her head out from under the covers, “Take em’ yourself skinny!” she shouted as she withdrew back into her den. Eric decided he’d better venture some reasonable conversation since that’s what his mother had sent him for. “Mama,” Eric said, “Do they treat you well here?” Nina picked up her knitting once again and thought for a moment. “Don’t ever grow old son.” she said “Everybody you know just dies, your body doesn’t work right anymore, and you get scared to walk around outside. Sometimes I get lonely here, but it’s not like I’m alone. You see one of a person’s best friends is memory. When I start feeling heart-sick I just think back to the past and I’m not here in this little room. I can be anywhere.” Eric stared at his lap for a moment then looked up at his grandmother. “I’m sorry,” he said, “that I don’t stop by more often.” “I understand.” she said, “If I were young it would be hard to visit a place like this, it would seem so old and stale, But don’t think of the place, think of the people. A person adds up to a collection of his experience and that’s what you’re visiting. Not this old body but what’s inside.”

(Insert Epiphany)

The clock on the wall struck three, thrusting a colorful little bird out of its maple case at each gong. Eric and his grandmother sat and watched the children play with the nearly completed snowman. One child was putting the finishing touches on the face while another was placing a black cowboy hat on its icy head. A woman with a camera emerged from the house to record the moment. As she snapped away the children danced around their newly created playmate, the falling snow provided a pointillistic picturesque quality to their glee. Nina yawned audibly and lay her head back onto the pillow. “Think it’s time for another nap.” she said. Eric rose from the stool and stood over the bed “I let you sleep then.” Eric said. He rested his hand on his grandmother’s shoulder. “It’s been good to see you” He said. “How about a visit next week?” Nina was already fast asleep, a smile came up on her face and planted itself there. Eric reached down and pulled the covers up over her. He walked back down the hall past the nurses station. “How’s your grandmother doing?” the oversize nurse asked, her chubby arms spread out over the cluttered countertop. “Better than I expected.” Eric said. He passed through the door to the crisp snow outside.

Teachers Federation Year in Review

Going to try to get back into blogging here soon.
Every year for the Teachers Fed annual conference, we present a ‘Year in Review’ video. I’ll post up this as it shows a lot of what I’ve been doing over the past year. I didn’t edit this one, credit goes to my colleague, Matt Joyce. (There is a lot of obligatory ‘show a little of everything’ in here so it might not be of interest to anyone outside the Federation.)

Speaking from the silence


I attended Quaker meeting this morning; somewhere down the street a group of high spirited people had either a very late night party from Saturday or an early start to this evening. As we Quakers attempted to sit in silence, our neighbors worshiped to techno and modern ballads (there was a story about questing for ‘booty’...perhaps something involving pirates).

This was…distracting. I am focused on this shared spiritual experience with my fellow Friends; open to the Light that resides in…Boom-Shick Boom-Shick Boom-Shick Boom-Shick Boom-Shick Boom-Shick Boom-Shick. Remember when there were we were the way toooooo remember whennnnn!

So I began to consider distraction itself and what it means to avoid it, confront it, and carry a quiet space within. In my work at the Teachers Federation, I have a recording studio. In it is a large steel box with a padded room inside; when the door is closed, it’s completely silent and one is isolated from all noise and distraction (the box is literally separated from the building itself, it ‘floats’ on rubber pads). I’ve jokingly noted to my collegues that, should they feel the need, they are welcome to close themselves inside for a while and carry some quiet space away when they leave. This is, in effect, what Quakers attempt to do collectively in Meeting. We come together for an hour of quiet to share of it in itself and then carry that away.

Yet, we’ve the tendency to covet the quiet space itself and forget the world outside. I know this morning, I became irritated at the outside sounds that were intruding on our silent considerations. Don’t you people know we are doing the important work here? We are…Zweeeeeeeeeeeeooooo! I am on the star! I am on the star! I am higher than the star! I am slightly left of the star and somewhere out in space! In Space!

I then considered what a recording studio (and the Meeting) is truly for. It’s not about the quiet space; the space is built so that something important can be clearly heard there. When there is something important to be said at Teachers Fed, someone with the voice steps into the silence and speaks. It’s about having a space for clarity so that others can hear without distraction; it’s not about the speaker himself or herself. It’s not really even about the experience that he or she has in that space. We go into the silence to speak what is necessary; there is the need for preparation, for pacing and quiet contemplation. But, in the end, all the work of building a place of silence is moot if nothing is spoken within is then spoken without. We have to bring the quiet voice out of the silence and into the world.

This is something I struggle with personally; I’m drawn to the quiet spaces and tend to avoid the messy cacophony of life. Part of this is my nature (insert long conversation about introversion and extroversion, hard-wiring of the brain, studies with chimpansees, etc.). But there is always choice involved as well. I then end, this morning at least, I chose to embrace the distraction, stand, and speak to the Meeting what I related above. The distraction became the Light speaking and, though the silence was broken, the voice heard in the end was that of a shared experience we carried away together.

Voices of the Living and the Dead

These past days, since I wrote my last post, I’ve further considered the active voice, what is it that I have to say and how can I equip others to speak their stories? I am, at this moment, the most equipped I’ve ever been to do this. In my ‘day job’ at the Teachers Federation I’ve created a full production suite and recording studio. This will allow me to pull in all manner of interesting folks and amplify the stories they have to tell. 


I wrote my dissertation on the concept of stewardship. Stewardship is this all encompassing idea (it must be, we cannot rightly be stewards of only one part of nature or culture; the neglect of anything touches on everything else). I’m considering what I hold in my own stewardship. I read this morning an essay by Jay Allison on Transom.org. Jay has become an of Elder of Stewards for National Public Radio and writes here about holding in care the actual voices of people:

I co-produced the wonderful series Lost and Found Sound with my friends the Kitchen Sisters. Sometimes, I would listen all day to the voices of dead people. The listeners who would call our Quest for Sound line would describe their old tape or phonograph or whatever contained the voice of their loved one and say, “It’s all I have left,” as if it were an actual part of the person, full of life and breath. And in a way, it was. The connection to the remaining voice is not at all like a photograph, it’s much deeper. Sound has the ghostly power to enter our bodies, unbidden.

The playwright Marsha Norman talks about a time after her husband died, finding a plastic blow-up beach ball in the back of the closet and realizing it contained her husband’s breath. That resonates with me. It reminds me of the kind of power we hold in our medium.

There is something about our voices, the sounds that we make and take for granted. Each breath has so much potential for changing the course of a conversation—or in different circumstances, the course of a life or the lives of many. Breath and spirit have the same root in Greek, pneuma (yes, I did pay some attention in that one semester of Greek). I’m considering making a sign or writing this to people before they come in my studio. The breath you take in and give out here is an expression of your spirit. You breathe in and live; what you exhale speaks from your soul. I record our voices here in this place and the spirit of this will resonate out from here—and may for years to come.

It’s easy to get caught up in the technicalities of this stewardship (the stewarding of expression and spirit). I’ve taken time to pick out the right microphones, amplifiers with glowing tubes, and made diagrams of how to connect one box to another. But I must take greater care to get caught up holding on to the spirits of those who come into this space, to go beyond the mechanism and into a realm where we can encounter one another and the real substance of the moment we share.

I know that this sounds almost preposterous as the balance of what we discuss is the political activity of a trade union. Most of the people who step into the studio aren’t there to speak from the spirit and share our connection with the Universe. But I think that has to be my intent, otherwise I’ll just sit in a box recording people reading off lists of legal advice and oppositional statements to government decisions. I have to have the presence of mind and spirit to bring it somewhere deeper.

Also, this is again the ‘day job’, I realise that I need to build a body of work separate to this as well. Not so much for professional reasons, but to keep my spirit connected and grounded to other matters that are important. I have to be a steward of the opportunities I’m given in all aspects of life—and hold them for those who will listen.

Passive Voice, Active Voice

I’m considering my voice—not my physical voice, but my ability to speak out to others and what means I have at hand to do so. I am, by nature, a quiet person and usually reluctant to speak or intervene. This might not readily change; I don’t think I’ll ever be the ‘in your face’ contender out on the frontline. But I do need to understand the bounds and abilities of my voice and use it wisely.
Last week I read several news articles relating to weapons, war, video games (playing at war) and the general glorification of violence as a social norm. I think we need to pause for consideration when a new battle simulation video game garners nearly $800 million in its first two days of sale in a time when there is such a need for the ending of wars and fostering peace. I know video games are the easy end of the spectrum to speak about, ‘oh, you know what happens when kids play those violent video games’. I’m not sure I do; but, regardless of what the games in themselves encourage in people’s minds, I do know that ‘actual war’ is increasingly engaged through the medium of a computer screen rather than in person. There are still troops on the ground facing real risk; but the movement is toward a sterile press the button and the figures on the screen are dead warfare. One of the other articles I read last week was about a new cruise missile in the US that can be launched from the States and basically target anything in the world within an hour. Soon, like an online multiplayer game, our wars may be fought by telecommuters at home in their socks.

Which brings me back to voice; I am, at this very moment, sitting at home in my socks. What havoc for peace might I bring from here? What is the balance of what I can and can’t do with these tools at hand? I don’t want that to sound like dithering as I am actually aware of what can be accomplished. It’s more a question of what is the next action and then the next. I know that, in the face of these conflicts we hear about abroad (and at home), that one voice may seem moot. But this is no reason or excuse not to speak (that’s been said over and again—one voice does make a difference when raised up in a chorus of others). I stood and spoke at Meeting on Sunday saying, It is neither weapons nor the glorification of violence that are evil’s most potent tools; war is best served by the apathy of those who do nothing to speak against it. That is the crux of it, if nothing else it is put upon me to speak what I may in the way open to me.

I interviewed John Michaelis, the editor of Quaker Voice on Wednesday at the Devonshire Street Meeting House here in Surry Hills. Quaker Voice will be (it’s still in the works) an online forum for ‘Quakers and likeminded people’ around the world to speak out and discern social issues where they are. It will be a conversation where that first person voice of real people on the ground is shared with others of concern (rather the opposite of digitally mediated warfare). I’ve just edited the interview with John and you can listen here:

Quaker Voice Devonshire Street Interview by quietamerican