Over the falls

Quiet, Everybody is talking

2025-01-20T08:57:00.000+11:00

I have to admit, I'm kind of scared of the internet now. It's been so long since I've actually tried to engage with it. You know like when you're trying to jump rope and you're watching the rope to see when you should jump in? Yeah, kind of that, except there are like five million ropes going in all directions at once...

Somewhere in this merry journey of capitalism, we seem to have shifted our focus from actually acquiring capital, or labor, to simply acquiring attention. I guess it was when Elon Musk bought Twitter for way more than it was worth - in terms of actual capital value, at least.

We've always had models in the world that sell attention. The Byron Echo gets delivered to my house once a week, as it does to every resident in the shire, and I don't have to pay for it. The team at the Echo know that they are going to lose money on every paper. What they are is an attention merchant. They have people reading their free newspaper, so they can sell column space to people who want to use that for their own benefit. In most cases (although sometimes Byron is a bit weird) you can usually tell why they wanted it. It's to promote their business, or do something that in some way benefits them (or occasionally some genuinely altruistic good thing that benefits the community) Any community value from local journalism exists as a by-product of this.

Apart from the paralyzing fear of staring global irrelevance in the face, the other thing that puzzles me in this whole attention economy is this: What are you going to do with all this attention? Why do they want me to look at them?

Attention is a weird commodity, because a single person's attention is not really worth very much at all - it's only when you get a groundswell of thousands or millions of people paying attention that it starts to amass any value. And I guess that the value there is in being responsible for controlling what people are thinking about and reacting to.

As somebody who's always been prone to showing off, I get that. I get that people like it when people pay attention to them. And I assume there are instances where indulging that impulse is fun, both for the audience and the performer - it's kind of foundational in human nature that there are people who perform.

But the commodification of attention, this notion that it has some kind of innate value, this is new. It's more important to be performing than ever.

And that's the modern internet. Everybody's talking, nobody's listening - it's a series of competitions and tweaks to try to figure out what the algorithm will serve to everybody. Mr Beast made hundreds of terrible videos in a quest to crack open viral fame. (The first one that did it? Counting out loud to 150,000 over 9 hours.)

But that guy's been able to make a multi-million dollar empire out of just collecting attention. Trump won a whole election doing it.

It's like we're all Bart Simpson, with the pot on his head, banging another pot with a spoon and yelling "I am so great!"...

It's kind of exhausting to even comprehend.

I think I'm going to sit here and watch the ropes spin for a bit.

The Information Addict

2012-08-14T21:35:00.000+10:00

I walked behind her, the city swirling in the human ejecta that had arrived predictably from the office buildings as the workday drew to a close. She brushed awkwardly against the tide of pedestrian traffic, distracted, her honey brown hair swinging. The leather satchel hung heavily from her shoulder, making the task at hand that much more difficult. Her secondary goals were to catch the train, to cross the busy streets, but her primary focus right now, in the bustle of the busiest city street was her smartphone. She held it out like a compass, engaged in a pressing conversation. I saw the blurs of blue and green as she dodged the passers by - the telling hues of the Android SMS app. I stared at her golden hoop earring, mesmerized, as it swayed all of its own accord with the rhythm of the street.

It seemed almost comical, to watch somebody furiously engaged in texting, in this peculiar form of social interaction, in the middle of a million people. I began to wonder, what is it that makes us so obsessed? And then I realised. She was suffering from the same malady that I do - and that you probably do too. She was a junkie. She was addicted to something, something powerful, intoxicating, something that we all crave with incredible reckless abandon. She was an information addict.

The world that we live in now is steeped in information. Spectacular images are everywhere, whizzing by us on buses, flickering at us from neon signs. Motivating quotations and inspiring sayings are co-opted into advertisements. We can take a photo or a video of anything we see and share it with billions of strangers. I can take any place in the city, and find out fifty different opinions of it. There are millions and millions of social media status updates posted each day, ranging across the whole range of humanity, from the pornographic, through the thoughtful, banal, the humorous and the bizarre. All of this informaiton is available to us, and our computers at any time. The whole body of human knowledge is, more or less, accessible from the pocket of the average pair of blue jeans. And those jeans are periodically buzzing.

I arrived at my hotel, and sat down in the lobby. With a quick Google search for the date and venue, I quickly found the three events that had taken place at the hotel that day. From there, I could find the hashtags used for those events, and there, right before me, streamed a whole series of updates from the attendees - a Building Industry Management course, a meeting of the Australian Press Club, and a business lunch from the CEO of Google Australia, talking about the importance of moving business models from the traditional to the online. All of these conversations, like information ghosts, relics of the events that I had not attended that day - I could conjure them out of the air. I could read the ideas, the disagreements, the inside jokes. Meet the people, read their profiles, their histories. I looked around at the real life people sitting in the lobby, many of them just as I was, alone and engaged with their smartphones. Having meaningful interactions, with people far, far away from the silver and gold gleaming metal hotel reception.

Outside of hunger for food and lust for reproduction, the thing that we all crave the most, is knowledge. And operational knowledge comes from one thing - analysing information. Just like the sweetness of sugar, the heady sense of dopamine that we get from consuming information is a precursor - it's a sign that something good is coming. Consuming information pleases our brains, it gives us a reassuring sense of insight, it tells us that we could possibly gain something from this interaction. It gives us something to look forward to. Just like the sweetness on the tongue is an indication of impending calories, useful calories, the consumption of information is the first step to actually knowing something. And knowing something can be remarkably powerful - it could, after all lead to reproduction or acquisition of food or other resources. It's all about the knowing of things, this is what we want. And this is why we are all engaged, so recklessly, often at our own peril, in consumption of the endless banquet of information that we have before us.

Just like processed food, and the glut of readily available calories have caused so many of us to become obese, and unhealthy (In fact, there are more people on the planet today suffering from the consequences of too much food, rather than too little), isn't it possible that this massive oversupply of readily available information is going to cause us unhappiness? Is consuming all this information actually harmless?

Look at the growth in conspiracy theory. It goes directly to the dopamine center of the brain, by fuelling the ego of the conspiracy theorist. Because they alone, know something that nobody else knows, that the Rothschilds are controlling the weather, or that lizard people live inside the hollow Earth controlling all the illuminati. It's like a kind of tasty, promising fast food consumption, and one that doesn't' swell the waistline, but the head. Wake up sheeple!

I have spent my entire life, like lots of us, working with information. Trying to find ways to manage it appropriately, to connect people with meaningful information, to help people to get a handle on this information volume problem, and I am slowly coming around to the realization that excess information consumption is most definitely problematic.

Some of the issues include our inability to process the"right" kinds of information - a kind of signal to noise problem. But other issues arise from the fact that our models that we have evolved for processing this information are largely cracking under the pressure. Our society has not evolved mechanisms to cope with this massive influx of information. Our governance systems and leadership models are failing us, not because we don't know things, but because we do. Twitter watching, Poll obsessed politicians drive at optimizing policies for the niche case of voters likely to turn an election, rather than providing any kind of meaningful guidance. Internet special interest groups are soliciting for email lists much faster than they are for policies.

We have evolved a brain that is wired for ideas. It's wired to listen to them, to turn them over, to look for patterns, and to combine them with other ideas. And like all natural systems, these systems are prone to corruption. Just like a raven will adapt to the garbage bin, and shift his diet from bugs to fries, the human pattern matching algorithm will just as happily follow an endless stream of amusing photographs on a tumblr site. We've all done it. It's fun.

But is it healthy?

Brush Strokes

2012-05-27T19:16:00.000+10:00

What she meant was never clear. As she stumbled, in suspended animation, her long hair falling despondently ahead of her into the chasm that opened before her, the garbled sentiment seemed heartfelt and intensely personal. Hoping she'd be the one to plant herself on in. The draining, collapsing of a worldview and creative consciousness as she dropped, inch by tentative inch, a perfectly transcendental descent.

After the fall, the world completely transfixed itself around change. Every day, the change was present, like a stalker, constant, enforcing it's nebulousness - it's constant, incessant presence. Always. Nothing was the same. She was never the person she could have been. The kind of person that she was always poised to become. Those memories lingered, not with the breadth of potential that they held in precognizant times, but with the bitter residual momentum of difference. His dreams held her aloft, strained to push against her 'real' self, not the calculated, difficult and ingratiatingly rational person that had emerged.

His brush filled the canvas with the same broad, bold, flourishes of acrid desert colors. The dangerousness of the elements, brought through the loneliness of change, sprang from the canvas, his whole self forcing against him, while she lay idly in the background, the orderly collection of reconciled dockets and spreadsheets, the stapler fixing with formulated guard. He stabbed the brush in forceful moments, in time with the meticulous sound of the stapling.

He would remember how the real person, the wife-that-was would dance. And slovenly collapse on his arm at the end of the evening, sweaty and sated with lustful desire, fuelled by lines of coke, and a fierce compulsion to create, and build, and fuck and shine. He could still see her, trying to afix the disco ball to the stairwell wall, stunned by the sparkles cascading from out in the open hallway. Precariously balanced on the railing, still wearing a shapely black evening dress hitched up to her waist. Alternating between a serious effort, and collapsing into fits of giggles. He walked up the stairs and scooped her up as if she were nothing, her mock protests fading as he carried them up to the second floor, becoming more and more the focus of her scattered attention...

The morning opened, as they all did these days, with the stark violation of his forcefully created reality. It was real. Not a dream. She was gone. He rolled over to the place in the bed where he insisted she was. Nothing.

The shade of awning kept the morning light from intriguing into her early morning ritual. One bowl of cereal, with precisely 27 raisins. The CD player playing The Police's Synchronicity as each raisin was counted and individually placed into the bowl. The milk was in a precisely measured white jug, placed at a calculated angle from the bowl. One, two, three.

Each moment of her existence was now a measure, a careful, momentary rational continuance of the previous reasonable process. The things that brought her pleasure had changed. Pleasure itself had changed. Change. These thoughts came not from her, for the very notion of contemplating order was no longer part of the world. These thoughts He had to think for her-that-was. He had to feel the frustration for her. And he did. For them all - for the three of them.

He wanted to make something sweet. Blood and soil, a maple tree. Make something good. He was changing. Changed. He staggered past canvases, hers long since dry, and his still wet, their works co-habitual places staring at each other, eying each other with a conjoined creativity that no longer existed in the dimension of time. He paused at a sculpture carved from her hand, a soapstone monument to the curves that first brought his eyes to light on her.

Chided, still woozy and struck from the shock, and the surprise that it still hurt, he felt a brief moment of self-indulgent, wicked delight at their misfortune. A pang of ringing satisfaction at his own personal torment. The reality, the starkness, was precisely the thing that drove him, and him alone. Nobody else could know.

He knocked on the kitchen door, as he did every morning.

"Who is it?" Her voice was lilting, but emotionless.

"It's me." The ritual.

"Very well, you may enter"

He shuffled into the kitchen, shuddered, and stretched carefully. She regarded him as a barely tolerable intrusion into the structured morning.

She sat, dressed serenely, brown bread and sensible shoes. He loved her, both of her, The she-she-was, and the she-she-shall-become. He made coffee, carefully engaged, head down.

Raisins plopping into the bowl.

Sting sings "Wrapped around your finger"

Blessed are the ListMakers

2012-04-30T20:48:00.000+10:00

This is a post from my morning pages completed at http://750words.com. These early posts are frequently disconnected, semi-cohesive train-of-thought ramblings, and they very seldom see the light of day. I recently re-read this entry from September last year and it resonated a bit with me - perhaps because it is a product of my sleep-fogged brain. If you're interested in writing, sign up and get started writing your own 750 words a day. It's kind of fun!

What is it with the ability to know anything at all, with the ideas that we float along in our heads, the half structured, the impending and the unknown tangible fleeting moments that scuttle around in our minds as we weave our ways through the day. Carrying in our minds this impending activity - one that, while started can never really be finished - that there's no urgency, only a vague kind of responsibility, a light and unfettered dusting of supposed-to, once that has gone, and it is so easily resplendent in the galaxy that we live in, so shy to coyly place the idea into another compartment, to weave through the distractions with years of deft, practiced skill, and to shine through the many different ways that the smoke haze delicately shovels itself around the notions in my brain, throughout the swollen strings and colorful moments of distraction. There are impending notices, messages, retrieved from the far away places, the recesses, the bell that rings with it's grey doldrums, diffusing the game into a societal discharge of scattered children, that run like marbles from a glass jar, speckled and chaotic, to the line where we all stand, waiting for the queue to form the next line to get out of the place that we are all in.

Should we ever allow the caterwauling piercings to puncture and probe their way into those comfortable places, then the guilt would set upon us like a jackal, like an old enemy, with a harsh momentary lapse of sensibility, that would sting with resolve and the methods of past, abandoned shuttles of collective responsibility and the right thing. We would feel apprehended by ourselves, because in truth, that is precisely what we would be. There is too much pain to be found in the process of sitting down and completing a task - it is too hard, too much like something else we might do, there are other responsibilities, more important other responses, that make up a list.

A long and weaving list of things that need to be done. It's horrendous, how this list seems to be a solution to the problems. Take the load off, unburden those responsibilities, and add them into a list. Then take the list, and abandon it, ignore it, let it to its job of removing the bodies stress, and sense of pending completion by capturing those sentiments down into a level of ink and paper, or bits lined up in a solid state hard drive in a very particular way. Breathe out. Let it go. Leave all those pressing tasks down there, and leave it all behind. Shed your pressures and stress, make a list. And then walk away, secure in the knowledge that you can't possibly forget to complete those things - they are on a list, after all.

And you walk away as the candle burns down, and the list is left there, abandoned - that thought, that half-formed proposal, or half-hearted promise, suddenly coalesced into a task and written down. So, all sorted out then.

Except that it was a moment, when there is too much to do, when the pressure of satisfactory builds up to a point where it is a skyscraper of bleak unmoving unhappiness, were you simply have to let it go. You have to mark all those tasks as complete, knowing full well that the tasks are not, and will never be complete. You have to get them away from your visibility, and into a kind of task purgatory, where things aren't done or not done - not completed or pending, or waiting on another. They're just there - marked as complete, but not done in any way, just - there. A record of a moment when you were organized, when you had full intent that you would be able to complete the activitiy, just a hopeless, disorganizes representation of the kind of person that you really are, but that your subjective ego won't let you see. And you see it, in those red, overdue tasks. When you know, in the heart of your hearts, that you will not be doing those things. And you never really had any intention of doing them in the first place, and as a result, while it makes you feel vaguely sad, it doesn't make you feel sad enough to be motivated.

Every day is a test - from the east to the west. It's easy to forget that this is who we are.

Royalty

2011-07-05T09:19:00.002+10:00

I awake in the quiet of the morning, reclining on my bed, made by the finest mattress-makers in all the land, filled with natural fibres and customised support structures, designed to ensure that I awake from each night's sleep revitalised and refreshed. I rise into the sunshine amid the sounds of the parrots frolicking in the garden, and don fine robes, crafted far off in the orient. I dress for comfort and warmth, and that which I seek I find instantly in my wardrobe, filled with many, many such clothes for all occasions.

As I descend the staircase, I feel that perhaps I should like a warm, invigorating beverage to ease the chill on this winter morning.

"As you wish, my Liege" - A beautiful white clean china cup, with intricate floral designs, and an ingenious machine that heats water almost instantly sparks into life with a gentle boiling hush. While I wait the idle minute or so, I gaze out at the tropical landscape, quietly encompassing the view, a dense majesty so rich and vivid, and yet, one that this King often fails to appreciate. I reach into a nearby drawer, and produce a clean shiny, silver teaspoon. In a jar nearby I have a compound, composed by the most brilliant food scientists, that, when mixed with water, reconstitutes the finest Arabica coffee from Equatorial Guinea - the aromas and deep robust hues appear like magic, as the boiling water is poured into the cup.

While the flavours of the pure drink are intense, lively and bold, I am not satisfied. Indeed, I should like this beverage to be sweeter. In another jar, just nearby, I have the distilled granules of a compound grown in the northern lands, the sugar cane. This grass is grown to a height of around 12 feet, before workers harvest and slash it, and then each individual strand of cane is crushed, woven and pressed, until a thick molasses is formed. This brown molasses is then refined through a boiling process, seven times, until a pure white crystal is produced, after extensive drying. It is this substance, this white powder fit for a king, that I choose to sweeten my beverage with. I add two spoons of the powder into the cup and stir. The clinking of my spoon is the only sound in the still morning.

And now, while sweet, this drink still does not please me sufficiently well. For it to be fit for me to drink this winter morning, it requires further modification. What I wish, is for a maternal cow who has given birth to a calf to be taken from the pastures and to have milk suckled from her teat. This milk should then be boiled and cooled. Then, when it has been boiled and cooled once more, it shall be carried on the roads of the land, hundreds of miles, until it is brought to me. This is perhaps an odd request, but it is what I desire.

Fortunately, being a King, precisely this liquid, white and cold, is stored right beside me, in a complex cupboard, designed by the finest engineers so that the temperature inside it is maintained at that of a freezing winter morning.

I pour this white milk into my cup. It swirls brilliantly, thermal currents producing a spectacular display of diffusion whorls. I stir them away impatiently with my spoon.

Bearing my Royal mug, I adjourn to the front deck, to sit in the winter sunshine, as it warms the land. As I sit, regally on the deck, high above the other houses and the ocean below, I am reminded of those fresh moments of my youth, those times when the winter sunshine seemed the only comfort that I received.

Still moments, where alone, and far from home, when that warming ray of sun on the back of my neck was like magic in the cold mornings, my cheeks still flushed from the cold, my clothes ragged and unkempt. Full of promise and discovery, a stranger to change, I would find those quiet moments in the morning, and I would feel amazed that I could be there, amazed that the world had a mechanism that I could maybe one day comprehend and be part of.

The sweep of nostalgia covers me with a rich tapestry of memories and moments, and the fleeting, desperate longing comes with it - for that time, when I was not a king, and was merely a rough and tumble young knave. I let it pass as I finish my coffee.

The Royal iPhone rings.

The Man who lived in the Sea

2011-05-12T07:27:00.001+10:00

At the edge of the world, where the sand meets up against the crystal cylinders of the rolling blue windswept ocean lived a simple and humble man, who had forsaken the land and his family. He stayed, for the most part, drifting around in the water, floating with the waves, riding the swollen anticipation that stemmed from the storms far out to sea on a hand made board. Fed up with the complications of the land, of the stupid human machinations of society, of people, and responsibility, he had awoken one morning with the seed of an idea.

And over time, although that seed was poised to blossom into a crazy proposition, he nurtured it, referred to it in quiet moments standing at the bus stop. He held it close to him, and it was never far from his thoughts.

This is how to grow oneself an idea - one holds it in the top of mind, and when pressured or sad, one recalls it. Soon, the idea will start to bud. Far from being fully-formed, an idea in the process of unfolding doesn't need to be held in the mind - it will reappear spontaneously as it grows, or when its host would benefit from its presence. Soon, the idea will begin to fully bloom, and if it is carefully regarded, and welcomed by its owner, it will take root, and the host will be driven to share it, to act on it, and to publish it far and wide to others. This is where an idea begins its powerful transformation into being, and this is how the world is made.

The seed of the idea that was planted into the humble man was to live in the sea. To forgo the suit, and the tie, and the meetings. Always meetings. To throw off his responsibilities with callous disregard, and to move from the land to the water, with a view never to return. There were problems with this zygotic notion, he would agree with himself, nodding. For instance, there were bound to be some people who would feel upset by his departure from the walking people. There was likely a great deal of busywork that would remain uncompleted, task items unchecked, questions asked. There were other things, more physical things, that would hinder his ability to live in his new aqueous abode.

And yet, despite it all, his idea began to grow, like a sand flower, clung to the yellow dunes, with dogged persistence, in such a fashion that made one suspect that there was a powerful subterranean reservoir that provided the flower with nutrients in this harsh sandy windswept world. And there was - it was love.

The humble man was in love with the sea. She danced for him, and whispered with crashing waves, the sounds of freedom into his ears. He could hear her call from far away, and was drawn to her, to stand with his feet buried in her sandy shores, and to gaze longingly at the swollen, bursting hollow lines of the waves. Sometimes the wind would blow from over the shore, and her delicate lines would be clearly accentuated, with trails of blown water streaming from the tops of her peaks, and he loved her. He wanted her most of all, more than the land-things. His desire grew. More and more flowers appeared on the bud of his idea, and soon, she was the only thing in his mind.

And then one day, the dense herbaceous entanglement of the idea could not contain itself within him any longer. He pressed the button on the bus marked "Stop" and pressed his way through the commuters, without saying "Excuse Me", and he kicked off his shoes as he walked through the automatic door. He walked through the tourist lines, through the market of people setting up their goods, removing his tie. He threw his jacket into the open parkland where children were playing with a football. He shed his suit pants, and pausing only to grab his board from the racks, slipped away into her open arms, as his idea burst forth into being.

And that is where you can find him to this day, floating with his one true love, nestled among the hollows of her waves, floating joyously among the white foam. Sometimes there are difficult moments, turbulent times where she will not talk, and only scream, trying to storm away from him, and all he can do his cling to his board and wait for her to calm down, and other times she is still and sad, and he must paddle hard to stay with her, to work with slight, delicate waves.

And together they are their own kinds of happy - one with the immense fullness of the natural world, and one with delight and accomplishment at the power of change.

Introducing Musichord

2011-01-07T12:15:00.004+11:00

I've always fancied myself as a writer for Rolling Stone. Living a wild reckless, rock n' roll lifestyle, touring around with no fixed address, being all edgy and drug addled and fuck-you establishment... Being one of those guys who can't speak, interviewing people who can't talk for the benefit of those who can't read...

...Overall, It seems I have (fortunately) chosen a somewhat different path, but part of that reckless dream lives on in my new blog, Musichord.

Along with an old friend, Charles, I'll be posting my thoughts on new music I like.

Yeah, as a couple of aging hipsters, it's tempting to hate everything that the kids come out with these days. But it turns out there's a lot to like out there. And if you're looking for something new to listen to, or just for that voyeuristic pleasure that comes from skipping through somebody else's iPod, you can head over to our new website - You can also get us on Facebook, and Twitter, too.

Rock on. :)

So this is the New Year...

2011-01-02T13:00:00.001+11:00

We spent New Years in time honored family tradition, on the beach under a glorious clear sky, with the Western Outer Orion Arm of the Milky Way luminous and scattered above the warm summer waves.

This year, I've decided to focus on production rather than on consumption. If that sounds a bit odd, well, perhaps it is.

It seems to me that in this coming decade, the massive increase in information availability, brought to me through the internet - through Facebook, and Twitter, and mainly through a never ending supply of smart, insightful and amusing humans to provide me with content, results in me feeling obligated to consume it all.

That I should read each heartfelt status update, and follow each interesting link. I should upvote salient points of view, demote and chastise those less pleasant.

I should "Like" things I read,

(Except when the tone of the status update indicates that "liking" would be inappropriate:

"Bob was abused as a child - 12 people like this")

I should be abreast of the latest memes and Internet jokes, be able to identify a RickRoll or a Bachelor Frog at twenty paces. I should re-tweet this to my followers. I should leave a pingback on relevant posts. I should only "mark as read" when I have actually 'read'. I should not unsubscribe, or uninstall. I should poke those who poke me. I should help my neighbor in Farmville. I should add to favorites. I should rate this content 5 stars. I wont have the guts to set this as my status message for the day. I should leave a review. I should ignore this purchase for the purposes of recommendations. I should re-join today at heavily discounted rates. Chris is new, so I should suggest people who Chris knows...

LOOK INTERNET, ENOUGH, OK?

Given some time to reflect, in all seriousness, all this stuff requires me to take in an inordinate amount of information. My default position in the information economy has become to spend far too much time trying to passively consume it all.

As much as I love the people and the intentions behind it, this year I'm going to stop consuming.

Instead, I'll focus more on my family , my work , my blog, and the endeavours that I've already undertaken, that are, truth be told, suffering through my information consumption addiction. Focus more on what I can produce, than what I can consume.

So, my gift to you for the coming year, is this:

Go ahead and ignore me.

Don't read my status updates, or my tweets. Don't feel you have to reply to my silly email, or leave comments on my ramblings.

I won't mind. It doesn't sound like much, I know, but maybe I can give you back a single instant of time to produce something worthwhile - a moment with your kids, or some creative pursuit- leaving the office a minute earlier, not missing the train, checking an item off the task-list.

In the end, it's our contributions that define us. Our actions, not the amount of background research we did.

This year, I want to do more, and I think the way to achieve it will be to focus on the doing, rather than the related information and discussion.

Happy New Year!

(if you like this post, please tell ten friends about it, via seven different social networks, set this as your status, print it out and stick it to your car. Bill Gates is counting them, and 1 dollar from every post will go to cure starving elephants from child abuse.)

Good Morning, Cockroach!

2010-12-20T07:04:00.004+11:00

The cockroach, like all creatures, is a miracle of evolution and adaptation. It's unique segmented body design, and it's hardiness and durability are legendary among popular parlance. It can survive in the most trying circumstances, subsist on almost nothing and thrive on on the most meagre fare.

But there is one thing that it hasn't yet adapted to - a perfectly flat, even surface. Such a thing has not existed for the vast majority of the cockroaches millions of ancestors, and the modern day cockroach is now frequently found adventuring across such surfaces, in the corners of bathrooms and under microwave ovens all over the world.

The problem with flat, even surfaces only becomes apparent to the cockroach when it is unfortunate enough to capsize, and land on it's back. Its method for righting itself is to wave it's legs and antennae wildly, in an effort to grab a hold of the leaf litter, sticks or grass of its habitat, and using the unevenness of the ground, get enough purchase to end up with the sky above it once more, ready to begin further scurrying.

In the absence of such things, as you are unlikely to find on the smooth porcelain of a bathroom floor, all this flailing fails to correct the problem. Unless it can find the edge of the toilet, or a stray piece of paper, or a drain, the cockroach will lie there, legs thrashing, until eventually it dies. The unnatural modern environment, as we have built it, can kill the hardiest of creatures, in the most benign way.

As I stare down at the final valiant, yet ultimately useless throes of a member of this species, shaving my face, and constantly watching the clock on my way to my 9AM meeting, it dawns on me that perhaps it's possible that our modern environment affects us in similar ways. What has humanity evolved to expect, that for whatever reason, is no longer there?

Would we as a species be stupid enough to create such a thing? One would assume that for humans, the things we hold dear and important to our survival would be at the center of any system that emerged from our clever behaviour. I mean, it's not like cockroaches got together and invented linoleum tiles. That would be an ironic end, indeed.

Grabbing a tissue, I scoop the corpse of the recently deceased insect, and, perhaps a little ceremoniously, flush him/her down the toilet.

Time to get to work.

Not The Story

2010-11-24T21:15:00.001+11:00

So, I’m Momo.

What?

Why’s it say “So, I’m Momo?”

What? What are you doing Dad?

(laughs)

Dad, just go back, back, back back.

Delete, Delete – Dad! – You’re not meant to be writing this, Dad.

Dad!

Dad!!

Back –uh – Do back!

(frowns)

(looks sad, but says nothing)

Why don’t you just delete all that?

And THEN we can do the story – if you delete it all.

Make all the letters go away!

Why not Dad? You’re just doing random stuff. This isn’t the story.

Pearly

2010-09-26T23:42:00.002+10:00

I found myself, standing in the entrance to a massive building, being guided by an unknown force that was far too big for me to resist or even to question. As we herded into the alcove, I could see up ahead, an ascending escalator with people riding smoothly up one side, and down the other. Suspended in mid air above the escalator, were 10 different coloured gaseous squares, like a series of lasers swirling through a mist, all at head height. I watched as people boarded the escalator, and rose up, their heads each passing through these strange coloured zones.

Semi-reluctantly, I boarded the escalator, aware of the endless jostling queue behind and in front of me. Easing my way up to the first zone, I felt it pass smoothly over my face. It felt strange, though not unpleasant - like that fuzziness that you feel when you wake too early in the morning. I moved out of the zone, leaving the feeling behind. As I continued the ride up to the top, passing through each of the different coloured zones, I could see out over the room below. It was a massive sprawling metropolis, like a giant theme park. People were idly walking, chatting, riding on thrilling roller coasters, swimming in a beautiful azure lagoon.

I arrived at the top of the escalator, and complicity turned to my right, to proceed towards the descending escalator, following the footprints of the person in front of me. There was perhaps some kind of a way to exit without descending, maybe some kind of administration area at the top, but my feet obediently followed the worn path, and I began my descent, heading through the remaining 5 coloured zones. Again I felt the warm, fuzzy feeling manipulating my brain, removing all the fear, and making life easier.

As I arrived at the bottom, I walked into a kind of exposition, where all the latest technology was being given to those who were interested. There were fantastic cell phones, 4-Dimensional televisions, computer tablets, all being handed out to anybody who wanted them. I ambled past a number of stalls, taking it all in.

I continued, dazed, along the boardwalk, breathing the rich smells of the delightful food that was being prepared and handed out to eager hungry folk of all ages.

As I walked on, I came to the water, where an enormous cannon was firing a raft filled with people skimming across the water, screaming with delight. All around me there were people content with their lives, enjoying their social media, their freedom,and their food. Across the lake I could see beautiful living quarters facing the water. Lights were starting to wink on as the twilight approached.

I had a near overwhelming impulse to join - to relax and engage in the frivolity. This was plain, easy living, fun loving, stress free existence. I had nothing to fear. I had no stress, nothing to even bother myself thinking about. There was no value to be gained in thinking, for there was nothing to be obtained from it. I had been braincleansed, and released into a free-range human enclosure, specifically designed by caring and compassionate beings to cater to my primate species' every desire.

I knew that this was not the kind of thing that would result in suffering. There was no planned uprising against the humans. We would not be eaten by some terrifying monster, or made into a battery of energy producing cells. We would not be maimed, or harmed for sport. The beings that had built this world for us were benevolent, kind and immensely powerful.

I was astounded. Imagine - never having to work again. Never having to struggle for anything, or suffer. No need for any kind of hunger or want. Never longing for something I could not have. Everything I could ever possibly desire was here. I could stay. I could make myself part of a nice social circle, have a family, settle down, and never concern myself with anything unpleasant or arduous again.

So why did it feel so unsatisfying? What was this fleeting feeling of dread, this sudden lack of potency? I had no need for any kind of power, my rational brain was suggesting to me. Why did it matter? There is no point in being powerful. You have all you will ever want. I knew this to be true. And yet, I remained unsure, aloof.

Suddenly, a powerful and starkly terrifying thought shook me, lurching from my old mind, through my stomach to the forefront of my brain.

This is it, I thought. Welcome to Heaven.

High Noon in Port Moresby

2010-08-20T15:36:00.002+10:00

Squatting down on the cement pathway, huddled amidst the short shadows of the passers-by, is a small child. As people stir past him, ambling on their daily chores, he watches them pass intently.

Periodically, he stiffens his back, puffs out his chest, and yells.

“MANSPRAY!”

The locals ignore him easily, continuing their amiable conversations as they proceed. Most are wearing bilims around their heads or shoulders. A woman carries a small baby nestled in her woven string bag – others are full of lime pots, food and cigarettes.

The sidewalk is a deep rusty orange, the colour of the Beetelnut tainted streams of spit that spurt unexpectedly from the mouths of those who crowd into it. The oppressive humidity seems to lift a little in the middle of the day, to be replaced by the blazing heat of the sun.

“MANSPRAY!”

I have always had trouble intentionally ignoring people. I have a kind of universal respect for every human, which seems to include at a minimum that I will genuinely listen to anybody when they talk to me. This means that, throughout my life, I have had a lot of very boring conversations about life insurance, salvation and various worthy charities. I am, as the less scrupulous and hardened salesman can attest, an “Easy Mark”.

Each time I am accosted in this manner, I am always slightly offended at the salesman for taking advantage of me. Surely, I think, if everyone has the same sense of respect for each other, we wouldn’t exploit such a notion for personal gain? That would be unfair…

I look down at his brown face. His big dark eyes, bulging slightly. His scruff of curly hair is tightly cropped, and his cheeks are slight, above full red lips. As soon as his eyes meet mine, He knows me.

Our engagement is silent, and flits by in a microsecond, yet worlds of information pass quickly between us.

He can sense my sickly patronising sympathy, which I am desperately trying to suppress. My compassion and sense of dignity that I feel should be afforded to all people, regardless of social or economic background. He can tell that, on some level, I am afraid of him. Afraid. A grown man of thirty-five is afraid of an eight year old? And yet, he is correct. In addition to a general feeling of not being safe, I am fearful of his culture – of his status. In some way his presence offends my worldview. “This isn’t right”, I say through my eyes. My son is eight. He concerns himself primarily with Nerf guns and Nintendo and school. This boy is all wrong. He should be learning and playing, and enjoying all of what it means to be eight years old, not barefoot, yelling at strangers in a dirty street.

He knows that I am not of this place. That I am here fleetingly, on some whitepela business deal, that I am uncomfortable and awkward.

I can see that he is not enjoying this, yet he does not dream of being elsewhere. I know that he is hawking these streets at the behest of some other entrepreneurial adult, probably somewhere nearby. I know that he is hardened, pushed well beyond things that are expected of such a young child in other cultures. That he has seen and experienced things that my sheltered upbringing and ever so slightly wayward youth never forced upon me. I know a sense of unfounded remorse, of inherited shame.

And I know that he knows that in this instance, he has found himself an easy mark.

I look away, and attempt to resume my passage along the sidewalk as if nothing has happened. I adjust the laptop bag I am carrying on my shoulder. The average wage earner here would have to work for about three years to afford the contents of my laptop bag. It’s like carrying a fucking house in the boot of your car.

“HEY MISTER – YOU BUY MANSPRAY”

I stop, and look back at him. He hurriedly waves me toward him. Slowly, I turn and comply.
In his hands, he holds some cheap horrid looking perfume in a glass bottle, that proudly proclaims itself to be “Drakkar Noir”

“Manspray, huh?” I ask. He looks at me again. This time, all business.

“YOU BUY MANSPRAY – TWENTY KINA”

I hand him the cash. He offers me the bottle.

Meta Mutter

2010-07-04T10:55:00.003+10:00

The late morning sun lights up the slats of the wooden blinds, casting striped shadows across the floor of the room. The winter solstice just passed, and the wind behind the pane of glass shuffles the trees slightly, as if trying to find a more comfortable position to settle down in for the coming day.

Seated cross legged on the bed, typing these words into a computer, is Gordon Taylor. He yawns, stretches his toes and removes the blue hood from his head. What kind of a story is he planning to tell you? In truth, he doesn't know himself. He is inspired to begin writing only because he loves the way words sound when they are describing things, the way they can conjure a picture of reality using the abstract constructions of letters and phrases. In truth, such a notion is not the best reason to begin to write. The best reason to write is to share a tale, to amaze, affront, astound and challenge the reader (that's you). Gordon would dearly like to be able to construct such a tale. He has made several attempts, but each effort seems thwarted for various reasons.

The main reason that Gordon likes to attribute these failures to, is time. "Who has time to do such things", he wonders aloud. To his left, his wife Alison stirs, mutters an incomprehensible answer, and rolls over - trying to find a more comfortable position to settle down in.

Time, or the linear progression of events that we perceive it as, is a wonderful scapegoat. And yet, there are the same number of hours in a day as ever we started counting them. Any other person who ever achieved anything did it within the same structure of days, weeks, months, years. No, Gordon knows that his assertion, while comforting, is not correct. If you are inspired to tell a tale, or to write some music, to pursue some creative endeavour for which you have a flair, or even a fondness for, what you need is not more time, it is more passion. It is the ability to commit that is the real reason for manifesting anything into the world.

And so now, an inspiration to begin writing something beautiful has turned, for Gordon into an effort in self-chastising. He is not happy about this. Like many humans, Gordon does not appreciate the lens of reality being directly applied to his motivations, even by himself. He can feel a sense of resolve building within him - there are facets of his life that he knows need more commitment, and greater passion, if they are to be successful. There are, as he likes to say several "things he has been kidding himself about" that simply will not proceed unless substantial, concerted, wholehearted focus is given to them.

There are no shortcuts to be taken. There is no amount of re-scheduling, or time-blaming, or productivity hacks that will magically reduce the effort required. No, what he needs to do, is to convert this internal sense of resolve into a commitment. And then work on those commitments unfailingly and without relent, until they are real enough to be described in a story such as this.

That's all very well, thinks Gordon to himself, as he amends the title of this story.

But then he thinks that it might be time for breakfast.

Dark Galaxy

2010-06-30T11:35:00.003+10:00

Dark Galaxy was a web based strategy game that in early 2002 became a huge time sink at the software company I was working for. I can't actually remember the point of it, or how the whole thing worked. But while shuffling through some old files, I stumbled upon this story that I had written about it.

Tosh re-lit the lantern as the rest of the workers filed into the small portable kitchen.

“Another turn’s work completed”

“Yeah- I reckon that harvest should keep ‘em going for a while”

Tosh was tired. Tired of farming. The genetically enhanced super food crops would soon be ready for more harvesting in another turn – then what? Off they’d go again… More harvesting, more carrying, more trudging through dirt. The food would be loaded onto the giant robocarrier that would take it off to the holding cache. I hope those folk in the colony appreciate what we do for them, Tosh thought, distastefully.

The lantern cast eerie shadows on the scraggly beards of the workers as they took off their boots and began chatting amiably. Tosh was tired of their stories, their same old friendly nature- the predictability of their lives. They were farmers - happy with their lot.

His mind wandered back to the tales Sat had told him – the stories of the planet that orbited a giant bright space light. On that planet, Sat said – half of the time the planet was bathed in an enormous bright light – that lit up everything as far as you could see like an enormous lantern. Then, as the planet turned, darkness enveloped the land. Tosh was used to the darkness. Everyone here was. It was the idea of something different that made Sat’s story sound so appealing. Tosh stared at the lantern, burning a giant pink blob into the back of his eyes.

“Hey – Grub’s up!”

Tosh turned towards the voice, blinking. The pink blob stayed obstinately present as his eyes opened and closed.

“Wha?”

The tall farmer with a pink blob for a head held out a tin plate of food towards Tosh.

“Oh – uh, thanks” He took the plate and began to eat.

With a sputtering noise, the fusion lantern hanging from the ceiling blacked out.

Laughing and muted cheers from the farmers as they resumed their feeding.

“Really Tosh – I don’t know why you bother with that stupid thing – It hurts my eyes.”

Another voice agreed – “Much better in the darkness – that’s the way we was born”

“Not Tosh – his Mother was a Fusion Reactor!”

More laughter.

Tosh silently crept to his hammock hanging at the back of the room, and curled up for sleep – more determined than ever before to find something different.

The Impulse woke him at the beginning of the turn, sent him-half asleep into the field, where the newly regenerated foodcrops waved in the breeze, waiting to be harvested again. Autonomously, he began picking pods from a nearby grove of tall daschun plants. Slowly coming to his senses, he realized all the men nearby were doing the same thing.

Not today, he thought. I can’t do this again. Or could he? It seemed so natural- so easy to use the Impulse, to work within the boundaries… A moment of brief internal struggle showed on his face, as he forced his feet to walk further afield.

“Hie – Tosh! Where you going?”

“There’s a good patch just over here – I saw it yesterday”

Diving through the plants, Tosh heard the sounds of the farmers fading away as he forced his way through the plants. He forced himself to walk away, leaving the field for a dense plain of scrubby, dusty earth, that seemed to go on forever. As he walked, he contemplated the difference between the light and the dark, and pondered his destination.

His first thought was to get back to the colony, but when he tried to remember which way he had come when they set out to build the farm, he found he could not.

That whole six turn process had all been done under the Impulse, and was a hazy blur of subconscious memories, like cloudy dreams. In fact, life in the colony seemed a dream. Maybe it didn’t even exist. Ah, but Sat did. Those tales were real, and so must she be. Tosh ached to see her again. How long had it been? Many, Many Turns. He wondered what she was doing now… Was she even on the same planet as him? Sat had spent a great of turns in orbit, after building the Colian Habitat, the first of the four habitat rings. Tosh looked up at the sky. Over the horizon, he could just make out the glow of the four generators that powered a habitat ring. He imagined her there, looking out one of the huge bay windows so the planet filled her view. Maybe, she’d be thinking about me. The frivolity of such a notion made Tosh shake his head. How far had he been walking? He turned. The farm was no longer in view. All around him, nothing but empty dry plain.

One Day by the Sea

2010-04-18T20:56:00.010+10:00

This post is in honour of my father's twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I couldn't be there in person this year, but I was there in spirit. And as one of those solemn and awkward blonde kids, I hope this story will give you some insight into how much that day meant to me, as well as to you both.

Herb and Ailsa swam towards their summer cove, for what seemed to Herb like the thousandth time. The morning sky was a pale grey as Herb idly broached the surface, taking a quick breath before returning to his spouse.

"I still think we should have stayed home. The water isn't any warmer here."

"Yes, Dear", Ailsa said, almost automatically.

"And you know, Hank was going to take us out to visit that new wreck he found. I wanted to see that..."

"I know Dear. It will still be there when we return, I'm sure"

Herb opened his beak as if he was about to speak, and then thought the better of it. They swam on together in silence.

The summer cove had been a longstanding part of Ailsa's family tradition, and not even Herb's staunch grumpiness could sour the anticipation she felt as they arrived in sight of the brown rocks that marked the headland. The annual trip back to the cove was always a touchstone for Ailsa. Each sandy path through the rocks brought with her a childhood memory - her sisters bravely daring each other into difficult and more dangerous underwater caves, her father calling her home as the day faded. Strange and delicious new foods. Late nights with the pod, laughing in the moonlight. But most of all, the cove brought a kind of security for her. No matter what Herb's position was, she would be here. And Herb knew that as well as anyone. With an extra spring, she leapt high out of the water, taking the time to survey the familiar yellow cliffs and scraggy casurina trees that clung to the windswept sides of the cove.

The tide was particuarly high, as it always was this time of year, and as Herb sluggishly chased a school of Tailor off towards the deeper waters, Ailsa ventured a little further into the cove, where the swell was starting to break. Kicking her tail, she nestled perfectly into the curl of the wave, and felt the warm sun on her dorsal fin as the wave propelled her forwards, faster, and faster, into a salty white foam. Again she leapt from the water with excitement, with scant regard for her age, like a dolphin 30 years younger. It was on this brief flight that she noticed the crowd out on the beach. It was strange to see so many humans crowded onto the lonely beach of the cove. And what was even stranger, was that they were all so quiet. It was a golden sunny day, and save for a few fluffy cumulus clouds, the sky was the deep blue of late summer. Perhaps it was just the memories of her reckless youth, but Ailsa found herself intrigued. She slowly swam closer, away from the breaking waves, up one of those sandy paths between the rocks. Carefully rising above the surface, she could here the speaking tones of a single human. The noises they made were so strange...

As she rose, Ailsa could see the humans had arranged themselves into a strange formation - a male and female were touching their bony flippers together in the centre of the congregation. Alongside the female were more females, clutching flowers, and three blonde haired children stood beside the male, looking solemn and awkward. A gaggle of spectators watched enthusiastically. A single human addressed the male and female in the center:

"...Do you Ian, take Catherine to be your Lawful Wedded Wife? To have and to hold, in sickness and in health?..."

There was more muttering and strange staccato sounds from the humans. Surely, Ailsa thought, this was some kind of courtship ritual. A human bonding. Ailsa's thoughts went immediately to the day that she and Herb were bonded before the pod. Surely, to a human, that would look just as curious as this? Ailsa turned, and let out the familiar clicking sound to alert Herb that she was nearby. A click returned through the water:

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm still coming. There's plenty of food here."

Ailsa again poked her head above the water. There was more talking, and then the Male grasped the Female between his flippers, and pressed his flat beak up against the beak of his new spouse...

The thunderous applause, and cheering noises that immediately followed caused Ailsa to shoot below the surface, and swim against the waves back to the safety of deeper water. In her haste, she didn't notice Herb, returning with a beakfull of Tailor.

"Hey! What's the rush?" Herb looked concerned at her flighty demeanour, as she collided with his side.

"Oh, it was... Nothing..." Ailsa had to settle from the unexpected noise, she felt dizzy from overbreathing.

"Well, there's lots of great food to be had out there. I uh, caught you some. And you know what, I think maybe the water is a little warmer. I haven't felt this speedy in months!"

Ailsa turned to look at her spouse of 25 years. Fish was hanging out of his beak. He had that same hangdog expression that he was wearing when Ailsa had first met him, same furrowed brow. On the spur of the moment, she swam alongside him, and clasped his torso with her flippers. She pressed her beak up against his beak.

"My darling", she said warmly, "Happy Anniversary"

"Happy wha? Get off me, have you lost your mind? Hey!" Herb struggled against the unfamiliar embrace.

By the time he had struggled free, his Wife had snatched the catch from his mouth and he found himself staring as she flipped her sassy tail to disappear into the deeper waters of the cove.

Grinning, he swam after her.

Hey, look at me, I'm a Business Jerk.

2010-03-18T00:03:00.000+11:00

In a crowded hotel room, hastily assembled, the desks arranged in a U shape. Business people are seated sedately, all wearing collared shirts, some with ties, listening to a discussion about the grant funding capacity of the Australan Government in Papua New Guinea, and the benefits to the state of Queensland. Lame jokes elicit predictable polite courtesy laughter.

The Queensland Treasurer, a young politician looks bored and fidgets idly with his pen. It's not surprising. The topic bores us all, and I am forced to write down what I see in order to give the appearance that I am taking notes. I look up and nod periodically, as if to say "Yes, that's a good point" or occasionally with a furrowed brow - "I don't know about that..." Nobody notices. Secretly, everyone's mind is wandering. The Asian gentleman to my right is fighting sleep- his eyelids conspiring against his desire to be seen to do the right thing in this artificial social envionment.

"...This is an exciting time..." says the speaker. Oh no it's not. The blackberry wielding, hurried young businessman with the striped shirt rubs his eyes fiercely, and adjusts his position again on the uncomfortably hard hotel chair.

A question from a concerned participant changes the tone of the room for a brief moment, before the dull monotonous warble of the original speaker resumes. In a way, his voice is welcome, like a familiar blanket, returning the participants to their somnambulistic business daydream.

In my mind, I stand and announce loudly to the room:
"My God, this is Boring! I'm leaving. Enjoy your business jerk meeting, suckers!"
The speaker stops, aghast. The smirks hidden behind expressions of mock surprise turned my way all reveal the same inner thought - "Yes!"

The room errupts into hubbub, as everyone has an opinion to express at once. I can see Tammy, the meeting organizer frowning harshly at me. I slam the door as I gleefully depart to the freedom of my independent life.

...The Treasurer interrupts my fantasy. It's clear he's considering the same idea. Instead, he tells a joke, and asks a direct question in an effort to curtail the rambling. The rambling answer that's returned takes several additional minutes from our lives. Again, the Treasurer interrupts. This time to thank the speaker and politely insist that the meeting is over.

Smiling and nodding, I file out of the room into the bright lobby, adjusting my tie.

Buzz - I wonder why it does

2010-02-12T12:15:00.000+11:00

Apparently web based social services need to be named after animal noises. We have Twitter and now Buzz, so that's the birds and the bees covered. Hopefully Microsoft or Yahoo can get in on the act with something with a bit more grunt - Oink! Or "Moo" perhaps...

Seriously though, a few things struck me about Buzz that I wanted to share.

Google has, via gmail, been collecting a lot of my social capital. It knows who I talk to most, and presumably at least semantically, what I talk about with whom. In the back of my mind, I was vaguely aware that this was going on, but Google's "don't be evil" mantra kind of reassured me that this data wouldn't be exploited. With the launch of Buzz, it becomes apparent precisely the scope and scale of this profile mining excerise that Gmail has been. As a heavy Gmail user, buzz came pre-configured with all my friends, and had 75 interesting posts from them, at launch.

Compare this with Google Wave, which launched with an empty canvas. My Wave inbox still has 10 "waves" in it, all of which say roughly the same sort of thing: "wahoo! I'm on a Google wave..."

So is Buzz going to replace Facebook for me? - I hate to say it, but there's a real chance that it will. I live in Gmail, and only rarely visit facebook - mainly posting through my Twitter account. How is this going to affect workplaces? Will they begin limiting access to gmail, just as many today block Facebook? Will there be a Buzz for your Domain" feature, akin to Yammer for Google Apps? How would such a product fit in with the compliance and regulation governance rules around retention and records management?

As usual, more questions than answers. But I think this is really the most game changing thing I've seen from Google since Gmail itself. Crazy interesting times. Baa!

Gord's Ukulele Ringtone for the iPhone

2009-08-26T16:27:00.005+10:00

Late last night I picked up my Ukulele, where it had been lying neglected in the corner of the office, under a small whiteboard covered in work scribble.

And as I was reading the work scribble, and feeling quite overwhelmed by all the work I have to do, I absentmindedly played this little diddly - which I decided sounded kind of like it should be a ringtone - so I turned it into one.

If you have an iPhone, you can download it here - just drag it to your ringtones directory in iTunes, and it will show up on your phone when you next sync.

This Is Just To Say

2009-04-15T15:04:00.002+10:00

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

- William Carlos Williams

For Keith

2009-02-24T22:05:00.002+11:00

A friend of mine died today. He wasn't a particularly close friend, or even someone I had spent a long time with. He was a work colleague - we'd worked together at TOWER Software. To Me, Keith was a bit of an enigma - a records manager, ex military, he was organized and careful in his approach to his work. I could always be sure that when I needed a stapler, or sticky tape, that I could find it easily at Keith's desk. When the cancer took hold of him, his desk was often empty. (This made the task of sneaking paperclips much less pleasant. )

Keith's specialty was the JITC (Joint Interoperability Tactical Command) Certification process. If that sounds boring, well, just wait - it gets way more detailed. The US Defense force certifies Record Keeping solutions to ensure that they comply with their strict policy of retention and control. This process is immensely complicated - it requires compliance with literally thousands of different rules and regulations. Because it is so complex, (and so difficult to understand, yet alone comply with), the JITC standard has become something of the Holy Grail in record keeping. TOWER's record keeping software, TRIM Context, was the first system to ever be granted the accreditation under this hyper-complex maze of compliance regulation. This was largely due to the work of Keith Cameron - a dilligent, smart, and careful man, who paid attention to the detail.

His was a kind of talent that I am deeply envious of. There is no way that I could possibly be even vaguely competent at the kind of work that Keith did. I am too short-minded, too impatient, and not careful enough to watch the details. As you go through your life, you meet people who are different to you. At first you might be tempted to mock them, or to give them a wide berth, because they don't fit into the way you see the world.

Over time, I've become profoundly appreciative of those people like Keith, who think differently to the way you think. They are an opportunity for you to learn something about yourself.

The world lost Keith today. Like lots of us, he was a husband, and a father. He had an infectious laugh, and a great attitude. I remember that when I last saw him, at my farewell from TOWER, he gave me a hug. It was a bit awkward, and I think we both knew that it was a permanent goodbye. We were a couple of colleagues, who respected and liked each other. It seemed the right thing to do.

So, Thanks Man! - Although it's only work, and not "real life" - your presence in my life for a couple of years was important to me. And the work we did together was always great fun.

Money the money money

2008-09-19T23:03:00.007+10:00

This Financial Crisis on Wall Street thing started me thinking.

Since we arrived in the US, I've been contemplating how strange it is that America seems more concerned with money than it does with people. And now, with a trillion dollars already handed out to high finance, and discussions about even more massive handouts, well - it's pretty clear who America loves the most.

For me to send my children to University here in the US will cost me about half a million dollars, assuming average current College prices. If I get sick, say with an expensive disease like cancer, I could be easily looking at 300,000 dollars a year in treatment costs. When it comes to preserving my personal health, or my ability to contribute to society, the United States wants to contribute absolutely nothing. And yet, the US Government will spend trillions of dollars - that's over a thousand billion dollars resuscitating businesses that have effectively done stupid, bad things. The kind of thing that you should go out of business if you do.

The injustice, at least from where I sit, is huge. This bailout money is not coming from a giant bank vault filled with cash. It's a promise. It's a repayment plan - a credit deal imposed on taxpayers. Indirectly, it's coming out of people's pockets over the next 50 years. And these people are the same people saving for college, and arguing with HMOs over their cancer coverage.

This is more money than has been spent to date on the war in Iraq.

Conservative estimates on the cost of providing health care insurance to cover every uninsured American would cost 90 billion dollars. That's less than one tenth of the money already spent on the bailouts.

Let's be clear here - America now has her citizens shoveling their personal cash - cash that they haven't earned yet into the pockets of rich Wall Street stock brokers and investment bankers, at the same time that they are struggling to pay for things that most other governments provide for free.

Is this really government for the people?

Thinking of Illinois

2008-08-15T01:38:00.001+10:00

I sit, pensively leaning over my keyboard, stilled for the first time in an hour.

The lilting piano music had caught part of my conscience. I stare out the window at the Virginia sunshine, fading in the afternoon. The green, filtered light falls dappled onto the lawn between me and the dogwood tree at the gate. An elderly gentleman pedals along James street, wearing a blue denim hat and a white T-shirt.

Somewhere, a fanfare announces the advent of something. Some kind of thought dances elusively as I stare abjectly into the world. And then it hits me. That the time spent is gone. That great intentions and potential are worthless. The future is also worthless. Green light is reflected from the trees in an instant.

I think about it now.

This life

2008-07-19T12:10:00.005+10:00

I haven't seriously written anything here forever. I was re-reading some old posts, and realising that I really liked reading them. So, in the interests of posterity...

Living in America for the last two years has been a wonderful adventure. It's been strange, and entertaining, and frustrating and all the things that life probably should be, if you're trying to make a decent go of it. But, times change, and the lure of Australia is calling us back across the Pacific. So, me and the family are going to pull up stumps and head on home in October. (I still haven't figured out baseball. )

This brings a huge amount of stress, and excitement, and chaotic planning, and other things that life probably should be, if you're trying to make a decent go of it. I feel like I have two different todo lists - one for work and one for home. And when I look at each of them, I think - yeah, I can do that in two and a half months. The trouble is, there's two of them...

Cognitive Bias is a strange thing. When you look at the list, you recognize a huge series of strange ways of thinking - because they are underly the way you think.

I was musing the other day about the kind of person who re-defines failure as success. This is a pretty common scenario - typically arrogant, ego-centric folks who are afraid of failure tend to be very dismissive of any effort. Not so much because they actually think it can't be done - more that they don't want to risk being seen as committing to something that failed. These folks will often be so adamant that a project will fail, that they will subconciously sabotage a project - just to be sure that they can fold their arms and say - "I told you so."

That's not something I've experienced of late - just something that I recalled - given that I haven't really been in "the workforce" since Dean and I started Infovark. Working for a startup of your own with no customers is a wonderful experience! We've been working really, really hard - but the kind of focus that you get when you have one single thing to do is really motivating.

There's a lot of risk and anxiety in our project. Most startups fail. But I feel a huge kind of zen satisfaction that comes from grabbing an idea and wrestling it into existence. I'm not sure how it will be received - that's where the anxiety comes from - but I am completely confident that the idea is a good one, and the implementation has been done right.

My kids are on the extended Virginia summer holidays, and are musing about getting ready for bed. My precious wife has put up with so much of an absent husband through all this crazy working, and yet she still seems happy to see me when I come home.

It's a charmed life, this one. Just trying to make a decent go of it :)

That's SO Raven.

2008-07-15T12:36:00.002+10:00

You know how it is - You're busy working , trying to get your startup to beta.

Then Little Headed Simon pops up and posts you some link he saw on boing boing.

And then he says that the link isn't really that interesting, but the way he misread the headline was actually much more interesting.

So then you say - "you should make a game out of that..."

Yeah, yeah I know- that's like every other day, right?

Except that this time, He actually did.

LHS - you are seven different coloured lasers of awesome.

My highest score is 2.

Now

2008-05-08T09:29:00.004+10:00

Here's a first. This post has a soundtrack.

The reason this post has a soundtrack, is because this mp3 is a recording of the music I was playing with my band on the weekend, when I came to this realization. And somewhere in the middle of a somewhat self-indulgent but very satisfying twelve-eight blues progression, this weird notion of immediacy hit me. So, I thought I'd attempt to share it. Press play, if you didn't already, and see if you can follow me on this one...

The realization comes from this notion that when you're playing music, as soon as you play a note, it's gone. I know that's kind of obvious, but when you're playing with people who are much better than you (which is always a good thing to do) you really have to concentrate. And I found myself concentrating on which note to play, and which change to make, when. But once I had "made it", and played the right note, it was gone. It might as well have never been there.

There were other changes coming up, but they were a fair way away. Part of my brain was keeping an eye out for those. And part was feeling kind of proud of the fact that I'd managed to keep it together so far.

And then it dawned on me, that all of this past and future stuff was kind of a distraction. The only thing I really needed to pay attention to - the one thing I needed to do right - was to play this note. The next one. The one right now.

Which led me to question my internal motivation. Mainly. I just wanted the music to sound great. But, part of me was keen to avoid the 'knowing glare' from my bandmates, if I messed up.
People have evolved a natural tendency to evaluate each other. Sometimes intentionally, othertimes almost subliminally, you're evaluating the people you meet in your life. As an extremely social animal, humans have a very complex reputation management system, which helps us decide who we should engage with, and for what. This is an extremely important skill, and it's one that may be the cornerstone of all society.

But this Reputation Mangement System also sucks. Reputations are easily damaged. Sometimes they are percieved as damaged, when they're not. It can lead to feelings of low self worth, and anxiety. (This is why people fear public speaking more than death.)

Your reputation is really just a weird arbitrary evaluation that starts with people who have met you. It's based, almost totally, on your past activities, and your future potential. So, I thought that maybe, just like the music, that it too is a distraction. That the only thing you really need to be concerned with is right now. How you were in the past is gone. And how you will be in the future is completely irrelevant.

I found it to be an amazingly uplifting thought. You should give it a go. Just focus on your actions right now. Pretend that there is no future, or no past.

You don't have to rely on those things to "average you out".

Anyway, this is all getting a bit deep. But, it really stuck with me.

And I wanted an excuse to share some of Carl and Tommy's awesome guitar solos.

:)