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10 September 2014

Essentialism, Bipolarity; Lady Gaga, Sexual Abuse and 'Born this Way'; Gayness

Germanotta ain't stupid, so why I am I the first Googleable person to mention the following ? The Lady Gaga project intentionally incorporates the following dialectic in its own antitheses: 'I was born this way' and 'I'm on the right track'. So you were either born a freak, or had decisional power in being a freak. Which? Germanotta isn't stupid. She's throwing a firecracker: which anomaly do you choose to befriend? Did you have some agency in anti-orthodox-sexuality? What value do you give agency? To what extent do you authorise your own narrative? [I am really not trying to be an asshole here. I'm done being molested. Most people have. It ain't fun. I've been confused by my own attempts to explore the bounds of my own sexuality. No one forced me to do so. I chose adventure and honesty.] So what do you reckon? To what extent do you feel the author of your own sexuality? If you feel out of control, can you really love people who have come within your sights due to acts of violence perpetrated on you? I am not, by ANY means, saying that love cannot rise from the ashes of destruction. But I'm saying: look at, hate, cry about, and love the disasters that made you who you are, and that brought you into contact with the beautiful people you would not otherwise have encountered.

Gay Essentialism, Bipolarity; Lady Gaga, Sexual Abuse and 'Born this Way'

Germanotta aint stupid, so why I am I the first Googleable person to mention the following ?

The Lady Gaga project intentionally incorporates the following in its own antitheses: 'I was born this way' and 'I'm on the right track'.

So you were either born a freak, or had decisional power in being a freak. Which?

Germanotta ain't stupid. She's throwing a firecracker: which anomaly do you choose to befriend? Did you have some agency in anti-orthodox-sexuality? What value do you give agency? To what extent do you authorise your own narrative?

[I am really not trying to be an asshole here. I'm done being molested. Most people have. It ain't fun. I've been confused by my own attempts to explore the bounds of my own sexuality. No one forced me to do so. I chose adventure and honesty.]

So what do you reckon? To what extent do you feel the author of your own sexuality? If you feel out of control, can you really love people who have come within your sights due to acts of violence perpetrated on you? I am not, by ANY means, saying that love cannot rise from the ashes of destruction. But I'm saying: look at, hate, cry about, and love the disasters that made you who you are, and that brought you into contact with the beautiful people you would not otherwise have encountered.

7 September 2014

I Play Dumb; It Stops the Hursting; DubboGender: Allow Fuck or Submit to Sociofuck

'I play dead / And the hursting stops!' - Bjork - 'Play Dead '.



How many parties and/or social situations in which I've had to play dumb! My entire fricken life, really.

I grew up in places where intelligence is punished. (See one of my all-time favourite books by now-Nobel Prize-winning Canadian author Alice Munro , 'Lives of Girls and Women' .)



Punishment is doled out differently for males and females in such places. Females are disciplined via orifice (vaginal/anal/oral) -penile/digital penetration and publicisation thereof. You are now our animal.

If penetration is denied, social pariah status ensues. In intellectual-creative-gender-differential -punitive geos, 'men' dictate (and, in accordance with Greer , are negligently or self-servingly, permitted to dictate) women's fate.



Allow fuck or submit to sociofuck. Wherein 'men' denigrate and divide, and 'women' do the ultimate damage by intragender abandonment / acquiescence to these measures. So, as a graceful, beautiful soul-buddy of mine did, be left alone at the bench at lunchtime.

In one of my several lifelong acts of thoughtless, selfish, or cowardly acts of abandonment I perpetrated on my buddy, as a cemented, three-year-old-higher male (years of not always pride-worthy work under my belt), I winced and watched without action. Which action might have had a fair, but not great, chance of success. A year after I left Dubbo ,

 
she, horns ignoring viscera, shredded both her former life and the barriers of the national intellectual-social elite to gain herself a place in the 1st- or 2nd- most prestigious public school in Australia. And safety.

Otherwise she might have ended up with a currently diagnosable mental illness. Sometimes you can earn your way out of such boxes. There is free will.

For males - I'm one - it's different. You can be the class clown. You can humiliate teachers, Tori Amos - jester -like. You don't need to be physically penetrated (though you sometimes are). You can play tough, cute, dumb, bridge-to-fuckworthy female, troublemaker, Fight Club Narrator , and get away with occasional embarrassment at academic award ceremonies without punishment and without sabotaging your own marks. And if other guys think you've gained yourself access to worthy pussy, you're a demigod.



 Just don't use big words in conversation. If argument occurs, one-word nouns like 'troglodyte' or 'closetcase' trump the inarticulate, earning female (male-physio-shielding) praise and knowing-males' jeering.

And if danger of physical harm abounds, you assume the worst and throw yourself into the fray like when you're on the sports field. Clintonesque compartmentalisation. And let the energy flow into your eyes. I'm 35 and have never been threatened to be assaulted by anyone except my father (despite being quizzed about whether I speak ' Bogan ' by international students in my building given the places in which I've lived). People see the insanity in your eyes even when they suspect you might be carrying kerching.

But when you're in the chardonnay-swilling, educated, socially-conscious and socially-unforgiving white artiste inner suburbs, but still retain a working-class accent (despite your intellectual superiority), you will encounter socio-politically authoritarian needies posing as insiders/exclusives. They will feign (and even feel) anger at any non-orthodox assertions and/or even simply open, curious questions, especially in respect of rote-leftism.

Let them think you're an uneducated worker who needs their politics to be decided for them by mere 150-IQ middle-class people with degrees. Then you sort who's who from who(m). Icing on the cake can be when they learn you're the soul-buddy of the elite-school politicostar on whom bets are being placed as to their likelihood of Prime-Ministership.

'Oh, you're […]'s brother! Nice to meet you!'

Like you respect their sub-genius opinions, crave their societal imprimatur, or feel embarrassed before they realise your supposed import. Acceptancee-thankyou, thanks to the Academy, and thank the Lord!

Short-circuit it all: play dumb? Who gives a flying fuck if 150-IQers think you're dumb?

You learn the most from the world when the world underestimates you. You conquer most easily those who think you aren't a threat.

Just don't talk about it.

Yeah, there's pride, but that's just 'curling up inside [your] private torstures'.

31 August 2014

Open Job Application (Absolute Honesty, You'll Reject Me)!



I hereby apply to the ether for a job that will help me get out of bed. I'd like to combine my need and (peerless, savage) ability to advocate for, or work on behalf of, non-privileged people of any kind with my desire to work with fun co-workers and (if possible) have the rare but requisite space for daydreaming paths to achieve higher-order goals within my vocation.

I've had twelve jobs, one in which I was considered incompetent, one in which high management and customers thought highly of me but middle management and co-workers thought lowly of me, one in which I was considered a gifted trouble-maker, and the other nine in which I was respected and valued by all stakeholders.

EMPLOYMENT

McDonald's Restaurants

CutCo - Sales

Warehouse Storeperson

Waiter, Intercontinental Hotel, Tokyo

Junior Clerk, barristers' chambers, St James Hall

Legal Editor, Lexis-Nexis

Sex Worker

Community Legal Centre Paralegal / Volunteer Supervisor

Retail - Men's suits, Gowings

Bushland Regenerator

Broadcast Monitor / Media Digesting, iSentia

Cinema Worker, Dendy

 EDUCATION

Higher School Certificate (NSW): 99+ TER (Tertiary Entrance Rank) (1996)

Bachelor of Arts (Philosophy) (University of Sydney) (2002)

1/3 Bachelor of Science (discontinued) (University of Sydney)

1/2 Juris Doctor (in progress) (University of Sydney)

AWARDS

Faculty of Law, University of Sydney: Equity and Merit Scholarship (1997)

Faculty of Arts, University of Sydney: Equity and Merit Scholarship (1997)

OTHER

Semi-fluent in Japanese

Class A Drivers' Licence

Responsible Service of Alcohol Certificate

Responsible Conduct of Gambling Certificate

VOLUNTEER

Community Legal Centre

Tenants' Union of NSW (Tenants' Advice and Advocacy Service)

Irrelevant Gushes of Writing During Exam Stress

I write vastly more stuff when I'm in the middle of exams. Ideas that have nothing to do with whatever I'm cramming spew into my head (the 'idea rate'.) And I'm more inclined to pick up a pen and record the ideas than let them float away (the 'compulsion level'.)

I know it has something to do with ADD and how Ritalin makes you read and absorb information more quickly but not grasp its depth and implication (let alone anything derived through lateral thinking).

Music Fashiondabblers, True Music Lovers, Age, Solid Gold, Smooth FM People



I'm 35 years old. Most of my friends have started listening to classic hits -type stations (solid gold, smooth FM, what-have-you). It feels like abandonment. And I'm not being hyperbolic. I want my funky family back :( 

Inability to listen to things released beyond age 25, unless widely critically acclaimed by conservative media like The Rolling Stone, and/or closely fitting genre-moulds that existed before that time without too much stretching of imagination = saddening.

My thought train on this subject went like this:

I went to a café where they played, in sequence, the following:

1. A Beatles track I've never heard (an experience of extreme rarity; I listened, thought 'paint by numbers' and thought of John Lennon's five hour Canadian radio-hosting gig where he upbraided George Harrison for being too lazy to change a chord or two when plagiarising whatever became 'My Sweet Lord', a tactic he and Paul McCartney were smart enough to employ).

2. A late blues (early 1960s?) track by someone famous. Remastered.

[Both tracks felt lazy, in a professional way, not a complimentary way.]

3. A Jurassic 5 track. Sweet, smooth production underpinning absolutely forgettable raps.

4. A Portuguese version of David Bowie's 'Starman'.

5. A track from Portishead's second album.

So I demolished my food and escaped from wankdom, physically cringing.

It made me think of the (possibly urban-mythical) story about Aphex Twin turning up to a gig in Sydney, realising that only middle-class culture-nazi hipster wannabe white kids had afforded to buy tickets to what the rest of the population were not yet acquainted with, getting pissed, and deciding to play back-to-back Top 40 hits (unremixed, need I say).

It also made me lament that the war between people who feel music and people who are music fashiondabblers has left a lot of good music in the cold. For example, a lot of anti-fashion music lovers would have eschewed Massive Attack because fashiondabblers hugged them before the said fashiondabblers got suit jobs. Now one of the greatest acts of all time is almost friendless. I was actually thinking that when the Jurassic 5 track came on (great production, crap raps), then thought, 'who did great production and decent raps? Massive!') and then the Portishead track clinched the thought process.

Jessica Irvine, Fairfax, NewsCorp and The Drum (ABC)

I saw someone named Jessica Irvine on an edition of The Drum recently and was perplexed as to both why she was given said platform in the light of her ensuing murmured banalities and a muffled bell going off in the recesses of my brain. A search of my blog revealed why. No wonder she's now at NewsCorp. I'm so sick of privileged people being given posts above that which their intellect can handle. If we continue to run Australia as if it were England we will end up with a parallel of intellectual prowess. That is, punching below our weight.

Funerals and Hypocrisy

Most funerals are exercises in self-serving hypocrisy. Who do you think you're benefiting, the dead or yourself? Thought so.

If you couldn't be bothered communicating anything more than clicking a 'like' button on a friend's whatever-photo in the past five years, why bother now? It reminds me of when I first had disgust for an ex who used the library to cry about her own life in the school library which was shut off for the day after an unknown member-of-Year 12-gang-member died in a car accident.



There's no such thing as 'too busy'. At the least, people who've had a peak experience should know this. There is only choice, aversion and exhaustion.


World GDP Per Capita; Living Above Your Means; Oppression and Normativity

The current world GDP per capita is US$12,400. (See PPP and Substinence and Productivity/GDP Comparisons Over Time).


So you're making more than that? And you're disbursing it with abandon? Life can be fun, can't it?!

Just do not live above your means. That's a sin.

However: do you think you earned the right to be born in a rich country? Or to be born to parents who bequeathed you with DNA resulting in higher-IQ, more marketable intelligence? Good for you!

Or do you think your soul somehow racked up reincarnation points somewhere?

Far be it from me to throw accusations of presumptuousness, wilful blindness, or self-imposed 'busy-ness'.

Just do not tell people on less than $12 400 to live within their means. If only for your own self interest; as Greer says, there will one day be a reckoning. And people might not be kind in the process thereof.



Live on, greedtoads!

Will ‘Still Ballin’ Tupac-Style Always Be Possible in the Face of Yet Unimagined Pain? – Love to Bigboy

We only partially had a mutual respect for the fact that we were both ‘still ballin’. Bigboy had enough insight to put it as the first track on the only mixtape he made for me. I just loved the beats, 2pac’s intonations and random lines like ‘forgive me if I smoke’. I had a vague notion that it was about holding strong both realistically and apparently in the face of supposed defeat. That notion is no longer vague.

I once said to him that I admired his bravery. He snapped, thinking that I was referring to another act in his life that people thought to be brave. The said action wasn’t brave; it was the act of someone who had lost everything. Repercussions are meaningless to those who have nothing left to lose. I was referring to his bravery in the face of major depression and his own situation which made it hard for him to perform necessary subjection to this unknowable, irresistible force. Which is the first step to healing. And despite his 1960s and earlier-born –faceted lack of perception of the earliness and gravity with which young people now engage with existentialism, he had a feeling I knew what I knew. About, separately, himself and myself. I can’t remember whether he made the mixtape before or after my clarification of my opinion about bravery.

We don’t know each other anymore. But I know we’re both still ballin. There is no other way.

The sadness so apparent in Tupac’s first verse is possible to process as an adult. But when you think of the unintendedly ironic portentousness of Tupac’s words, even when you’ve fully dealt with the near prospect of things like homelessness and death, as a human you do not have any idea of what new/unpredictable forms of agony may lie in the future. The world is crazy. It will always invent new, unimagined forms of pain. The only thing I know is that we have to be constantly creative in re-imagining Enlightenment, and ways of still ballin. Till the day we die.
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Manicnotes by Manicboy is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 2.5 Australia License.