Not about cricket....

Waiana

“Fear has led me here;
Love will lead me hence”

Your monologue was charming,
A path in your wildness

I have heard it all before
Of course.

Cliché.


“He laid down his life;
Now I lay down mine”

A ripple in my persona,
Your chaste soliloquy turned red hot

I have heard it all before
Of course.

Touché.

The Proposition

In a time when all maps have been filled in, empty quarters crossed, heights reached and indeed more than one generation past gazing back at ourselves in the out of body experience that is space travel, it does feel rather like there is very little left to discuss.

With this in mind, and a recent discussion with Jessip, I would like to propose that we set our minds to a series of cricket writing. Both Mr Fitzgerald and myself have enjoyed a number of books that have baseball as a central tenet, and it seems odd that a game as similar to the great American passtime as cricket has so little of quality written about it. They both have a similar timeless pastoral element from both the point of view of both spectator and participant, and the one on one confrontations and vagaries of a game based on repetition that results in a mental battle that sets them apart from other sports. And there seems to be plenty of room inside the game for wanky existential rants, which is probably fitting.

It will be what I am working on next.

Ecclesiastical blogging- It is all meaningless

What a good thing Adam had. When he said a good thing he knew nobody had said it before - Mark Twain.

I know this will seem discouraging to those not already jaded by the ecclesiastical meaningless of the blogosphere, but really, it’s all been said before. Worse, it’s all been thought before. And now we have documentation at our fingertips. In the past I could go to musty book stores to get a sense of the futileness of human thought and advancement. Notice how carelessly each book is discarded on the shelf- forgotten, or never discovered. How discouraging to see one hundred books lined by each other, like cloned rats, written on the same subject matter, saying the same thing.

But at least that required some physical effort, to walk the solemn aisles, to hold someone’s labour in your hands, gives the artifact a sense of dignity. Those ideas and thoughts, strived for and sweated over, yet never reaching greatness, were given a tomb to rest. Now mediocre writing, by millions of fellas like us, roams the internet like spirits haunting our very sense of identity. Really, what makes us unique?

I admit the above question reeks of narcissism. Why do I need to be unique? In fact, some would say good writing should express that which connects us in the human experience. I agree. I just want to say that differently from everyone else. Thus, the duality of my identity struggle presents itself:

I long to take part in the shared and universal human experience, but to be remembered for my uniqueness.

This thought came to me when I decided to write my first piece for this here site, only to find, maybe through some butterfly effect, that an excellent article had already been posted on aldaily.com reflecting on the exact topic. And damn it, it said everything I wanted to say and more. It was a little piece on whether reading and struggling through a book is really worth the pain of reading and struggling through a book. I wanted to write on this because I myself was reading and struggling through a book, ironically titled the double.

I say ironic, because the book deals with identity challenged by one mans discovery of another man his exact duplicate. Of course, I draw parallels with my current struggle to find a sense of meaningfulness when faced with mirrored ideas posted on the internet everyday. How discouraging to see yourself reflected in the harsh fluorescent light of the zero and one’s of a computer screen, laid bare in it’s pornographic repetition. I figure it might feel similar to looking down upon earth from the moon- how small and insignificant we must seem.

So then I got really paranoid. And started thinking that someone maybe saying or thinking exactly what I am thinking this very moment. The same words I am speaking may be coming out of someone else’s mouth at the exact same time… Like These Words Now. Perhaps it would make me feel better to write something never written before; a combination of words never put together by any generation… swan harp breaks upon the slippery big mac shoe. It doesn’t make sense though, so really… it’s meaningless. How futile. So I continued on the day, pacing forward one foot before the other, like the millions of those before me and those after me. Until something positive actually happened.

I struggled through the book. I finished it, and it’s conclusion was worth the payoff. The women and relationships in the two doubles lives are remarkably in the end what define them, and separates them from each other. Sure it’s not a huge revelation, but it was somehow comforting. So perhaps I can take heed in the fact we have each other, and we are sharing lives in unique ways. Writing should reflect this, not a vain search to be recognized.

How brightly my ear’s burned when I read C.S Lewis’s take on writing- “ youthful vanity and dullness, determined to write, will almost certainly write in the dominant form of their epoch”. I hope to heed his warning.

Better late than ever [sic]?

I do apologize for my lateness. I will attempt to be more punctual and do ask for forgiveness.

I will now close in prayer:

Let us bow our heads as we begin upon a journey that may corrupt every fibre of good intention. We now stop in contemplation and hesitate as we are about to breach the waters of an endeavour that may swallow our friendships.

As our heads are bowed I must insist upon some ground rules as without rules the flies have no lord and the words we write become only for the author. The first rule I propose is that we must look first to re-read Barthes and immediately proclaim that within the walls of this forum the author lives¹ and will continue to live in the minds and text of future authors of these pages. The words painted on this tabula rasa will be continuously wrestled with, referenced and critiqued. Without such dialogue we run the risk of subjecting each other to a tedious monologue of vanity. The pride we take in our articulation should never override the interests of dialogue. Dialogue should be at the top of our manifesto as without it there is no community and more importantly – there is no revelation.

We may now lift our heads but I must argue for a further sitting on rules and regulations.

Amen

1 the author can live (at least tentatively) in these pages as we have a reasonable understanding of the background of the writer.

Mounting the rostrum

[waits for applause to die down]

‘And so begins another foray into the blogoshpere. You always want to start with some strong, purposeful statement fully outlining all the potential that you envisage for your endeavor. This is what Tim and I attempted in a previous foray into this kind of thing, and as you can see below we definitely need some help.’

An Invitation

Somewhere deep in my overcrowded psyche is a very distinct urge to create something. It is this urge that drives me (and most likely everyone else) to prance somewhat pathetically into the public arena and, without any further ado, pour out my overflowing, imperfect heart. Perhaps it was this same urge that caused Leonardo daVinci or Claude Monet to first place their stuttering stokes on canvas, or caused Plato to take whatever it was he took to that huge stone tablet and begin work on his Republic. Perhaps it is the same urge that caused the Mesolithic Man to paint on the walls of his cave crying out in the darkness of his ancient world that he should not die unremembered.

Whatever it may be, here at last is the cave wall I’ve been seeking, the tight white canvas stretching off to the horizon, the virgin stone tablet awaiting my manly chisel. So I invite you, let us cast off these mortal chains and give in to that thrilling baying in our blood; that desire to leave our mark and sleep the peaceful sleep of one who has, at last, created.

Tim

BTW RSVP ASAP

Just so that right from the start people who may or may not read this get a fair representation of the motivations for embarking on this (sure to be) mythical adventure I will use this, my first ever blog post, to outline my hopes and dreams for this precocial child.

While my companion in this adventure is prancing forth into cyberpace trying to catch up with the overflow of his creative heart and mop up some of that goodness, I am a little more timid remembering the last time that I entered the public arena I ended up with about 100 litres of gunge down my neck. Even bearing that in mind; the excitement now, with endless blank pages to be imprinted with genius, brings to mind a lover stretched out before one waiting in anticipation.

Of course one has to wonder if the cave man had spent all his time recording his environment for posterity then there wouldn't have been much time for hunting and subsistence evolutionising.

Tom

‘Which, probably makes it introduction time for those who have accepted the call to greatness. First up we have Mr. Daniel Skinner who will take some time out every now and again from trying to get someone or other elected. I would like to promise few ideological barbs but one doesn’t remove their teeth before sitting down to a buffet. I see looking around that Dr. Clarke is late, but that it to be expected of one so weighed down with talent. And last but not least if you would kindly turn and affix your attention to the back right corner you will find the mysterious Jessip Fitzgerald who, I am reliably informed, quit his job to be a part of this, also perhaps explaining the disheveled appearance and drunkenness.’

‘I think that’s everyone, and as I have nothing further to say at this juncture I will leave you all in peace. Unless you have anything to add of course.’