Word Salad with a Side of Soap

Again, I have been remiss in my posting, but by way of explanation, I will here include my travel log of late.

Dec. 5th-Return from Australia
Dec. 9th-Off to Houghton
Dec. 13th-Return to Houston
Dec. 19th-Leave for Plano (via road trip)
Dec. 21st-Return from Plano/Pick up Alicia
Dec. 22nd-Alicia departs
Dec. 25th-Christmas Day
Dec. 27th-Leave for Omaha
Dec. 30th-Aunt Erinn comes to Houston
Jan. 3rd-Return from Omaha
Jan. 7th-Aunt Erinn departs
Jan. 9th-Return to Houghton to begin another delightful, whirlwind semester

So, as you can see, I haven't had much leisure time since break began. I think I'm still waiting for break to begin, still trying to prepare for Christmas, a holiday which has already passed, in case I'm not the only one who might have missed it. This, I think, is also a vindication of my continuing pilgrim status, as you can see there has been little of the quiet pleasures of hearth and home for me lately. And Kathryn, I promise that I have not tried to avoid you, I have not seen any "301" numbers on my phone. In fact, our new phone in the kitchen doesn't even have a screen for call waiting, so I have had to resort to the unthinkable...actually answering the phone when it rings!!! (*gasp!*). When I'm home, that is, which as you can see isn't often.

At any rate, in addition to alerting you all to my impending "out-of-town" status, I also wanted to continue a little reflection with which I was trying to inspire my sister earlier this evening. We are watching the movie, The Hunchback of Notre Dame tonight, a movie which my sister does not particularly care for because it is not an especially happy movie, even for a Disney version. I responded by asking her if the only purpose of stories is to entertain us. She knows that that is not the case, but I don't think she quite understands why.

This all goes back to some conversations we had in Oz Lit class in which my much esteemed professor Maurie Nestor said that he thought that there should be a saying; "Don't trust anyone under 30" in reference to the changes that our culture has been going through in recent decades in regards to the way that we understand stories. One of the things that we have done is to cultivate a culture of forgetfulness in which we have a widespread ignorance about the stories which are most important to us, most fundamental to our knowledge as a culture. Now perhaps, too many of us see stories as entertainment alone, nothing more than to occupy our free time.

Now, it's not stories that I am attacking here, I am an avowed lover of stories in all forms, not least because of the many capacities they are capable of operating in and the many functions they are capable of fulfilling beyond just mindless entertainment. Our stories are our teachers, first and foremost, the way we transmit our values, our ideas, our way of looking at the world. This you can tell most obviously by the fact that stories are what we use to teach the young, and the most effective method of teaching the young, I might add (just ask Lyotard). Or at least, we used to, at any rate. Now I don't think we see our stories as anything besides a play-pretty, a bauble for babies to gawk at, with no real meaning. Oddly enough, we are still often telling the stories that we've told for hundreds of years, in their original or more modern (often watered-down) forms, but I think that what has changed more than the stories that we tell is the way we are taught to look at them. There is no more critical thinking, we do not look at the stories as our teachers, but as our court jesters. This is why I think Maurie Nestor says, "Don't trust anyone under 30," because they are bankrupt of the kind of knowledge which was always previously thought to be fundamental.

Don't misjudge me here, I'm not saying that we have to interpret the stories the same ways that we always have, but we must think critically about the stories we tell, and we must tell stories about which coherent and depthful thought is possible. Our stories must convey aspects of the culture from which we tell them, there is no other way to give them life. Think about it, out of the phenomenon of postmodernity we begin telling stories from "The True Story of the 3 Little Pigs" to the new movie, Hoodwinked, stories which look at things from a new perspective. We love turning stories, like everything else in postmodernity, on their heads so we can marvel at the new point of view. We don't just babble to amuse ourselves, we as a culture must tell and re-tell our stories with conviction, knowing that we have something to say. Maybe I'm just on a rant b/c I have an analytical personality, so I see meaning in just about all stories, even though it's not always a meaning I agree with. But I still can't help but think that people like me are vital for distilling those values and wisdom into something that just about everybody can stomach, and understand on some level, even if its not quite as conscious as one might wish. And hence, I think this is why I have become a writing major, because I want to tell the very most important kind of stories in a way that is just as bright and as vibrant as something that is meant solely for entertainment. I want to tell the old stories in new ways, so that they become fresh and lovely again, and I want to tell my stories as well, for my own benefit as well as for the potential benefit of others.

I am not, I do not think, by any means an exceptional story teller, but I am an avid one and I hold on to the hope in this, as in so many other things, that passion will serve me where talent and aptitude fail. Once a friend asked me if I could ever stop being a writer, a novel question and one which intrigued me. I know that there could be a time in my life in which I put away laptops and keyboards and pens and papers and pencils and any formal accoutrements of the writing process with no regrets. But there are two things which I know that I will never be able to stop doing: stringing wonderful words together to enjoy their beautiful sounds and meanings or to form a brilliant, tiny gem that I think of as a proto-poem, and telling people stories. These things I know I will be doing long after my wrists become defective from carpal tunnel syndrome and my fingers are too cramped from arthritis to type. Even when I am senile and shoved into the dark corners of a nursing home, I will still mumble the events of the Odessey, of Oedipus Rex, of Shakespeare, of the Brothers Grimm, of Tolstoy, of Bronte, of Tolkien, of Faulkner, these are the characters, the lives, the doings that I will blather incoherently in my gumless glory through my mushy applesauce till they lie me cold and dead in the ground...

Ahem, excuse me, allow me to step off of my soapbox and collect myself. It is here, friends and readers, that my rant must sadly end, as the night is late and furthermore, it is now time for me to go and read my sister her bedtime story...

Ho, Ho, Ho

So tonight I believe I am going to at least attempt to not be quite so vacuous as I was last night. Really shouldn't be much of a struggle to top that post, but hey, what can I say, a girl's gotta start somewhere. I think the trouble w/ me is that I really haven't been doing much of anything since the Great Houghton Heist (okay, it wasn't really a heist at all, but c'mon, that is a really catchy name!) For those of you who don't actually live in Houghton, I should probably be a bit more explicit. This semester in Australia, I was pining away for certain persons who live in the fair town of Houghton and lamenting the fact that I would not be able to see them for a whole year in the form of odes and ballads and other forms of poetry which I accompanied on my lyre. After a while, I got fed up with all this lamenting, so I raised up my MIGHTY right arm and brought in down w/ one of my soverign judgements: "I will go to Houghton this semester before these good souls leave the continent," said I, "or I will die in the attempt!" Well, from there it was a very simple matter of arranging passage for myself as a cabin boy (don't ask) on an ocean liner across the Big Pond (the Pacific, for those of you who are not adept at geography). After landing on American soil, the only obstacle left to overcome was the girth of the landmass of our 48 states, which I navigated across by earning my passage on various stagecoaches riding shotgun (literally) and protecting the shipments of gold from robbers, injuns, vagabonds, saloon girls, card sharks and other brigands. The last few miles were so snowy that I had to switch to sled dog and mush my way over the Appalacian Mountains surviving off of nothing more than fruitcake, melted snow and my cheery disposition. But I finally rolled in to town on the evening of the 9th, exactly a week ago as of today to be precise. Well, there was no small ruckus (that's called a litotes, means there was a big ol' ruckus) when it was generally known that I was about, especially since I came bearing gifts; all the riches of Australia were packed along those rugged trails to bring holiday joy to those that I hold dear. It was a fine visit, all in all, w/ plenty of catching up and other such vital business which will hopefully eventually serve to allow me to let my dears go off all around the world next semeter without my protection. It is indeed a dangerous business, stepping outside your door...

Well, since then, life's been pretty quiet. I've been frantically trying to wrap things up for my independent study, though on reflection tonight I realized that I don't actually know when I have to get everything in by. I was hoping to find Thryn online tonight to ask her, but so far, no such luck. I am trying actually to not set myself too many things to try to accomplish over break. I usu. try to be so ambitious and just end up disappointed, so maybe if I am not so lofty minded about what can be done in my alloted space of time, I won't be let down. The time is already flying by too quickly. I feel like Christmas is coming up much too fast, not because I still have tons of shopping or wrapping to do, but because I don't feel Christmas yet. Sadly enough, I still usually find myself trapped in the frighteningly subjective world of emotions to determine what is going on exactly in my life, so for me Christmas is not a day, it is a feeling. I had that feeling for a bit in Australia, it was lost somewhere in the crossing, I fear. I actually think it's probably been years since I've felt like it was Christmas at Christmas time. I think that is the terror that seizes me every year, that I will not find it in time for that day of days in which everything is supposed to be so pristinely like a Hallmark card. I hate to be a Scrooge about this, but I usually find Christmas to be so disappointing, it is like going to a play in which the scene is well-laid out and beautifully represented, the players all in place, the music and the aromas are even staged to set the mood, but at the most climatic scene, the star of the show just doesn't come out on stage. After a few moments, the audience starts to shift nervously in their seats, people begin coughing, and flickers of conversation begin to quietly crop up all over the room. Then finally, after an anxious minute more, the curtain is hastily dropped and the audience is ushered back out onto the chilly streets of reality, the show is considered a flop and all the critics tear it to pieces the next day in their columns. Tragic, isn't it?

This is even worse for me because, as a Christian, I think there is even more pressure to get excited about Christmas. This isn't just about cookies, parties, a pile of presents and a chubby guy in a red suit. This is about the savior of the world, God himself coming down to earth in bodily form to dwell among his creations, the ultimate in humiliation and the ultimate in love. Isn't that something that should just send warm fuzzies coursing through your whole body? Unfortunately excitement and gratitude isn't something I can flip on with a switch, even with such a worthy impetus as that. I know with my head that this is big news, but it's hard for my heart to capture the kind of wonder that such an event should inspire.

So what to do, what to do? I could just drop the whole thing, learn to expect disappointment and admit that the magic of Christmas must only be for children and fools. Or I could slog away and ignore the sputterings and grindings of my emotional generator that clearly indicate that there's a glitch in the system and keep on keeping on trying to ignite some life in the old thing; bake the cookies, play the music, read all the right verses of my Bible and pray that my defunct inner child comes out to play. Hmmm...another wholesale personality overhaul to be completed by December 25th? And I thought this was going to be my less ambitious holiday...

Hmmmm...

So, I am realizing that it's been awhile since I have made a quality post. And, more unfortunately, tonight is not going to the night that redeems me. Maybe I'll just gradually let the blog tank so you all gradually drift away from my readership...or maybe the next post will be better. I don't know, wait and see. For now, I will make meaningless observations about what is on the television.

Oh hey, my sister just came back out. I guess she can't sleep. I should help...

Okay, I'm back. You know, television is so vapid. Seinfeld is very, very bad. Like boring. I think I think I've even seen this episode before. Ooh, I wish I had a milkshake.

Perhaps I should call this a stream-of-conciousness, ego-draining, chakra purge. It would look very avant-garde on my resume. Maybe not. Now Jerry has to walk home through some park where he's afraid a serial (cereal?) killer is going to come along and saw his head off. I think I'm getting dumber...

Oh hey, there's a really old movie version of Othello on TV. Little do the TV people know that I just saw that show in my own little college. I do not really like this play, and I really, really do not like the guy who is playing Othello in this movie, he is so creepy looking. Denzel Washington would do a better job. He probably was not alive that point. Too bad. I am only waiting at this point to see who is playing Desdemona. Ugh, she's not very pretty at all! And she's wearing like the world's ugliest dress, some silver thing w/ some sickening salmon-colored fabric draped over it. Whoa, I think it's the lady who plays Wendy (very old Wendy) in Hook. She's not very good either. This movie sucks. I'm changing the channel.

Shoot, I'm still hungry. I think I will go read my novel, Cloudstreet, in an attempt to revive my intellect.

Oooh, a preview for Narnia just came on...I want french toast...

The Prodigal returns...

Well, I have been receiving a few comments of late as to my recent absenteeism in posting. I must agree, it is most disgraceful, this long absence of mine. However, I have been having trouble adjusting to your so-called "American" ways of life. This is indeed a strange country, you drive on the wrong side of the road, light switches are no longer on the door frames, you do not sell any decent chocolate or Tim-Tams, I can never seem to get to sleep when the rest of you deem it to be sleep time and I seem to have near collisions w/ people on sidewalks every time I step out the door. It has been hard, among such alien life-forms, to get back on my feet. But soon, my gentle Yahoos, soon I will return to you and divulge my soul, or at the very least the manifold duplicities I executed in order to pull off this latest trip to Houghton (ha ha...I chortle to myself w/ glee to think of it). But at the moment, it is 20 minutes after 4 in the morning, and you Americanites all seem to think that now is a time for sleeping (isn't jet lag just a gorgeous thing?) so I will attempt to join you in your strange custom of "night time." We shall see if this is really all it's cracked up to be...

The grand finale...

As of today...classes are over. No, let me try to say that again, more convincingly this time.

As of today, classes are over. Nope, still no good, I just can't believe myself on this one. How can this be?? Wasn't I just pulling onto the runway, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready for anything? More reflections on the leaving pending...

(As of today, classes are over...shoot, still not working...)

Tasmanian Devils (and chocolate...and convicts)

So, I have spent the morning trying to work and realizing, hey, wait a second, I am not actually getting anything done towards this exegesis paper that is going to be due in two more days. Now there is only a half hour before we are going to leave for another one of our lovely excursions, so I figured I might as well give in and at least attempt to catch up my blog again. This past weekend was our wondrous trip to Tasmania. I was somewhat surprised by the amazing natural beauty of this little island, it is like a cross between Western NY, only with higher hills and mountains, and the Caribbean with wide, shallow bays fully of crystal clear turquoise water. So, in answer to my assigned journal questiony thing, I think that Tasmania has much more natural beauty than the mainland, or, as they like to refer to it, the North Island. We spent our first afternoon there in Freycinet National Park, hiking around and visiting Wineglass Bay, which is supposed to be one of the most beautiful places on the planet. I have not seen enough of the places on this planet to be able to make an accurate evaluation as far as that is concerned, but I was not disappointed. There was a long, white beach with the funniest sand you have ever seen, almost like tiny pebbles, but hardly small enough even to be called grains of sand, and they squeaked when you walked on them. The beach was all in a long arc, backed by a steep dune all covered with green vegetation. On each side of the beach were big tall mountains, so tall that you could see little wispy puffs of cloud drifting by far below the peak. They were covered with deep green trees all laid our like a carpet around their flanks. Out towards the ocean, the bay narrowed so that only a little neck of water could get through, which is probably where it got its name. It was a long, steep hike down to the beach, but I think it was definitely worth it to be able to walk on that beautiful sand, look at the shells, and laugh at Matt as he tried to swim in the icy water, fresh off the Antarctic icebergs, which is the next closest land mass off the shores of Tassie. So that was a really fun day, in spite of the fact that we had to wake up at 5 in the morning in order to catch our plane.

Oh! That was the other funny thing. We all had to wake up ultra-early that day in order to be on time for our plane, and then as we all stumbled out of the house in our groggy, half-conscious state, we realized that only one of the taxis we ordered had come. So we all stood around in the parking lot, watching the sun come up and the sky redden, much like Dr. King’s face as he grew more and more perturbed at this unprofessional behavior from the taxi company. Then, we all breathed a sigh of relief as we at last saw the second taxi speeding down towards Kingsley, only to turn that sigh into a gasp of disbelief as the driver sped right past the college, missing us entirely. We waited some more while the one driver we did have radioed the tardy driver, I imagine with a message something along the lines of, “Hey moron, you missed your stop!” and we waited a few more minutes as he came speeding back, then waited a bit longer as he overshot the entrance to the parking lot just enough to need to back up in the middle of the street before he finally pulled in and we all rolled out. It all turned out fine, we still got to our plane on time anyway, but gosh it was awfully funny in the delirium that I was in at the time. Anywho.

The second day in Tassie was fun too. We stayed in Hobart and that morning just happened to be the one when they had their Christmas Parade! It was so much fun, I haven’t seen a parade in forever and I enjoy them so much. They had a bunch of different floats trying to show the multi-cultural nature of Tassie and so there was great Japanese drummers and Greek music and a whole float full of Africans (though I must say, that was definitely more Africans than I’ve seen in the rest of my time in Australia put together) and like three different troops of bagpipers. The weirdest things were the float carrying the giant gold statue of Buddha, sitting in his locust flower and shaded by a big umbrella, and also to see Santa Claus come rolling by in his sleigh and reindeer over a snow covered roof, all things which they definitely do not have in Australia, especially at Christmas time. Also in Hobart they have this big market that you can go to that has the coolest stuff which is where I spent the afternoon. I had been saving up my food money for the last few weeks and so I got to do a good bit of actual shopping that morning, rather than just browsing longingly. The other thing about Tassie is that the whole place has much more of a small town feel, so I found the people to be really exceptionally friendly there, even more so than most other Australians. A story to illustrate…

I had shopped all morning and it was getting to be like 2:00 and I still hadn’t eaten the peanut butter and nutella sandwich that I had brought for my lunch, so I picked the courtyard of a quiet café that was just closing and sat down. The only other people who were still there were these three older guys who, I noted from their conversation were all in a band together and had just finished playing the coffeehouse. So, as I sat there quietly eating my sandwich, one of them came over to say hi and we got to talking and he was asking me (my accent giving me away as an obvious American) why I was over here and what kind of studying I was doing and he stops suddenly and says, “How old are you?” and I think for a second before remembering, “20.” He starts digging in his pocket and pulls out this antique coin and gives it to me and says, “Here, I like the way you talk to me, you’re not afraid. You look me straight in the eye” and we continue talking. It was a crazy coincidence that the other guy in the band’s family all lives in Houston too, and not just in the same city, but like the office where his brother works is like two blocks away from my house. He is an ex-pat American who’s lived in Australia for the last few years. He really seemed like he just couldn’t stand living in America any more, the noise and the pollution and the traffic and the consumeristic way of life all just finally drove him out. I can identify with that to some degree, but I also feel like it’s better to stay with a place and work to make changes than just give up on it. But anyway it was a really cool conversation.

The next day in Tassie was quite silly, we staying in Hobart, but it was Sunday and basically everything was closed down. So basically Thryn and I read all day, which was fairly productive, but not much fun. Then that night we went to a service at this church that Thryn found. It was pretty strange, fairly small (actually really small, maybe only like 40 people) but still trying to follow this mega-church Hillsong kind of model. And rather charismatic, but not so much on the scriptural foundation. But hey, at least we can still all get together and having exciting and emotionally charged experiences of God. The end was also rather interesting, people getting slain in the Spirit all over the place, they were dropping like flies! I don’t know, I’m not really in town long enough to have an impact on any of this negative or potentially negative stuff, I thought about talking to somebody after the service but I was too upset to be able to articulate myself well. So I just ended up leaving. Bleh.

Our last day there started off with a tour of the Cadbury Factory…yum. Just like visiting Willy Wonka, only more purple. It was really funny because we had this tour guide with this razor sharp wit and she kept the tour pretty interesting and fun and also managed to make fun of Ben King without getting in trouble for it. The tour itself was also pretty cool, but I mean c’mon, it’s chocolate, what’s not to get excited about???

The rest of the day we spent touring around Port Arthur, which was kind of dismal. It is a sobering thing to be in a place of so much heartache, a place where so much pain was endured and so many lives were played out in listless despair. I went into the old penitentiary building and looked out the windows, trying to imagine what it would do to me to have to spend years looking at the world from behind bars. I don’t think I even came close to the sentiment, but the place made my stomach turn. Speaking of which, it’s supposed to be majorly haunted, especially the old parsonage. Our tour guide spoke about that place with so much conviction and as much matter of fact common sense as if she was simply warning us about loose floorboards. Don’t go in by yourself, she said, and she especially warned us girls not to go in, even together. Send a guy in first, she told us. I don’t know what exactly to think about such things, but I have heard enough stories to heed such advice when it is given. Although interestingly we had just been up to said parsonage before the tour, and not knowing anything about it, we experienced nothing out of the ordinary. But, regardless of any ghosts stories, I think it really does something to the feel of a place when so many people live such unhappy lives there. I was not sorry to leave Port Arthur behind. It has a pretty and historic veneer, like many other old sites, but there is something rotten at the core, methinks.

So, that was our trip to Tasmania. Sorry this was such a long post, but it was a four day trip. Fairly succinct for me, actually.

"Your mom goes to Hanging Rock!"

Wow, finally getting back to blogging for a bit. Sorry that I’ve been so remiss, but as I’ve said before, I’ve been busting my butt working on the world’s most involved paper, so I haven’t really had time to post. The paper, btw, is done, more or less, at last; it’s on theology of the body, but if you’d like to look at it you’ll have to e-mail me and ask for it, because it’s 24 pages of text, much too long to post. Anyway, the topic for tonight’s post is our little visit to Hanging Rock, a post which is overdue by about two weeks, and is a very important topic, since it has proved to be surprisingly pivotal to my Australian experience.

Well, to begin this delightful excursion we all got together to watch the film, Picnic at Hanging Rock in preparation for our own picnic we were planning to embark on the next day. And friends, I kid you not, it was probably the strangest film I have ever seen. It was actually in my opinion, pretty poorly written, the plot just kind of wandered all over the place without ever having a really clear direction, and the film seemed to always be trying to drop these little “clues” which never really fit together and introducing all kinds of obscure characters and dialog that didn’t really do anything to further the story. Cinematographically, it was also pretty…uh, I don’t even know what to call it. There was just a lot of stuff done to make it seem really hypey, like when the girls were walking up towards the mountain and there was all this intense, LOTR style music, and all they were doing was hiking up a rock. And then when they got up near the top, they all just kind of spontaneously laid down on the rock. Why? We may never know. Most strikingly was the part where the three girls were walking up into the clefts of one of the rocks, led by the flighty and ethereal Miranda, prone to mid-stream dancing, the main character I guess (“She looks like a Botticelli angel!”). Then the fourth girl was calling after them and all of a sudden she starts screaming her head off and her running is in super-slow motion and the sky turns pink and then the scene just ends. What was that about? Again, I couldn’t say. Oh, I probably should have mentioned that the story behind this strange film is of 3 students and a teacher from an all girls school in about the 1910’s who go out for a picnic at the rock along with the rest of their class and never come back. They are never found and nobody knows what happened to them. Now, the movie is based off of a novel and although there are some who think that there could be some kind of factual basis for the novel, but there were never even any news stories run about the event. The question that we are supposed to address in our journals for this week is whether any Australians think its true. The ones that I’ve talked to seem to be quite aware of the fact that the story is fictional, and yet there is a great awareness about the story. I don’t know, it seems to me like people know the story is not true and yet they still believe in it to a degree, maybe even only subconsciously, but there is always this niggling little doubt of, well, it could be true.

Hanging Rock really is a place that captures the imagination; it is just so strange and unreal. All the rocks are like these incredibly enormous boulders scattered around, some worn incredibly smooth by the trodding of many feet and some that were as jagged as hardened lava. You could see all kind of faces and forms in the weird shapes of the boulders, which didn’t help the place to feel any cannier. The way that the rocks were tumbled about around the top of this giant formation made this complex web of little passages, impossibly steep little valley, turns and crevices. I could easily believe that someone could be lost in there and never be found again. It was a totally awesome place for exploring though, a fact which I was quite determined to take full advantage of, which led to the first exciting occurrence of the day. I was poking around the rocks when all of a sudden I went around this corner and there was this book just sitting on the rock. I left it alone for a few minutes to see if someone would come and grab it, but then curiosity got the better of me and I went over to check it out. There was a sticker on the front that said, “Take me home!” which confused me until I picked the book up and opened the cover. On the front was a panel explaining that this was a book crossing book, which is basically a program sponsored by a website where people can take their books and leave them out in public places for other people to find, read, and then leave out in a different place. I think it’s a fantastic idea, and it was certainly one that tickled me, so the book is definitely coming back with me to America. Most exciting of all, it’s a book of Flannery O’Conner short stories, so I feel pretty sure that it will be something that I enjoy.

Secondly, well, I was having so much fun climbing around on the rocks, climbing in and out, up and then back down, and well, I have no sense of time and I don’t wear a watch…the short form of the story is that I was a bit late getting back down the rocks to our picnic. And when I say a bit late, I mean like, a big bit. The two-hour-long sized bit. Oops. So I finally got back down and they all saw me coming and started clapping for me and I took a bow. I finally got back down to where the tables were set up and people were joking with me, asking, “Hey Shannon, where’ve you been, we thought you’d disappeared too!” And I put my hand dramatically to my forehead and rolled my eyes back and said, “I’ve was possessed by the spirit of Miranda!” which would probably be a lot more funny to you if you had seen the movie. But the point of all of this is that the people there thought it was quite funny, and I have been known as Miranda, especially to my housemates, ever since. This is an important fact because Miranda is not just a name, especially now that the idea of it has developed over time. It is a persona that I discovered I fit quite well, because as I have realized, the idea of it was built around me, like hey, this spirit of Miranda thing is how people here see me. And that’s kind of a cool thing. I like my new nickname. I like being Miranda. Now I suppose the only questions are whether this person really is me, or is just a part of me, or whether it is only a disguise and whether that part will remain when I return to life at home or life in Houghton. These are the kinds of things you have to think about when you are a freaking over-analytical nutbag like me.

Goodnight everyone.
Best regards,
Miranda

Probably the most boring post you will ever read...

Seriously, I'm trying to warn you guys away from this one. We just had to write about our recent trip to the bustling metropolis of Geelong for our Engaging Australian culture class. I had to say something, but you do not have to read it...although, if any of you are suffering from end of the semester stress and insomnia, this could be your cure. Oh, the fascinations of the Ford factory and wool...

I think in all fairness it must be said that the Geelong excursion was the most dreaded of all the excursions we have done this semester. I think considering the fearful expectations we had, well, it could have been a lot worse. The first part of the trip was our tour of the Ford factory, which I have to say was my least favorite part of the trip. I don’t really know anything about cars, so I couldn’t understand anything of what were seeing and how all those metal bits they were showing us could be made into a functional machine. I also feel like we didn’t really get to see how anything was done, we just kind of watched from a distance but we couldn’t see, for example, how they used the die-molds to form pieces of the cars. The explanations that our guide was giving weren’t very illuminating either. The thing that I did find really interesting was considering the impact of robotics on the industry. It is interesting to think of the extent to which robots could replace human workers. They do the job better, more quickly, and you don’t have to pay them a salary or workman’s comp. because they never get hurt on the job. All of these factors make them very attractive to employers, but maybe not so good for the overall economy. Workers lose jobs when their work can be performed better by a machine, or they can be replaced by just one worker who is more highly trained. Some argue that this actually creates jobs by putting people into the technology industry to make and program the robots, but I find it hard to believe that this would work out like that in actual fact. It would eliminate a lot of jobs for unskilled laborers, at any rate, even if it did provide more work for those in the technology industry.

The second part, the Wool Museum, did provide an interesting contrast to the Ford factory as well as some parallels. For one thing, the aversion to technological advances was definitely a parallel. A lot of times when an invention would come along with the capacity to make work easier on the shearers, they would totally reject it because they thought that if work was easier, they would get paid less. So they would have riots and burn the shearing sheds of the squatters who introduced the new technologies. Actually, the whole shed burning thing was like the theme of the wool museum. If something happened that you didn’t like, just go find a shed to burn down. Yep…I can identify. This whole wool thing was pretty serious business. There was actually almost a small scale war over shearers rights when the squatters all got together to decide to unanimously lower the price they would pay for the work. It was a big conflict, and in some ways it continues to this day. I am glad that we got the chance to go to the wool museum because I feel like the whole wool thing is so much a part of the Australian consciousness. It is all over the literature in things like Henry Lawson’s stories and the work ballads, and even the modern travel narratives that I’ve been reading usually mention something about sheep. I think historically, if there had been no sheep, there would not have been an Australia because they could not have had that first sustainable export to stabilize the colony. From what I’ve been reading though, it’s currently a very rough market and a lot of station owners are constantly in danger of going bankrupt. There’s a lot about the whole economic situation that I don’t really understand, but apparently even with the help of unionizing and cooperatives, it is hard to make ends meet. It is no longer needed for sustaining the economy all by itself, but I think something integral to the Australian consciousness would be lost if the wool industry died out. Something of those outback ideals and the strange and sublime scenes that Lawson paints in his stories would be gone, leaving behind a hole that would be very hard to fill indeed.

Office Space

Sorry friends, I know it's been a while since my last post, maybe even long enough for you to notice the lack. I have been consumed lately with a big paper for my Christianity and Postmodernism class. I want so badly for it to turn out well, not for the sake of the grade, but because the problem that I'm working through is something I honestly want to figure out and revise. It's due on Thanksgiving Day (here, not there) so the clock is ticking down. I needed a break tonight though. I've been reading Dunn all day and my head is so full of Paul...sarx, pneuma, soma...and I don't even know Greek! But, an update is long overdue, so here goes...

It's been about a week ago now since I found myself walking towards the security desk of the Telstra Building, looking around anxiously. A few minutes of indecision before I found the folks I was supposed to meet, and we all headed up to the 24th floor. It was then that I found myself in a conference room way, way up in one of the tallest skyscrapers of the Central Business District, Melbourne, sitting down with Telstra execs, a postal worker, a drummer, and a city councilman, trying not to look as out of place and silly as I felt. What were we all doing there? Having church, of course.

David Wilson, who teaches one of my Kingsley classes on Wednesdays, also runs a number of cell churches throughout the week, including one that meets on Friday's at lunchtime for business people. I told him I was interested in going to one of his house churches and this was the one he directed me to. It was altogether an interesting experience. First of all, as a kind of side note, everyone except me and one other person was male. That may not sound like a big deal, but I have been going to Houghton for 2 years now, so it's pretty safe to say that I've gotten used to a different ratio. Secondly, I was the only American. That was interesting just in terms of what they had to explain to me. Like one of the things that was referenced in discussion was a big court case that's going on in Indonesia where an Australian woman got busted for bringing in some kind of drugs, which she claimed were put in there after the suitcase was out of her hands. That's commonplace enough, except in the country she was bringing them into, they deal out the death penalty for a crime like that, so its gotten a lot of media coverage. This is a specifically Australian concern b/c a lot of people travel into that area for either business or just on holiday, and so suddenly every tourist or business person has to wise up to the fact that they could easily find themselves in the same situation. All of this had to be explained to me, as an outsider. Just an observation on the whole "in-group, out-group" thing.

Anyway, they were talking about the book of Ecclesiastes because, as David explained to me, it's a book of wisdom which they find to be applicable to their place in the business world. It's highly informal, and nobody is exactly an expert biblical scholar, but they did come up with some surprising insights and ways of looking at things. At one point, they were talking about a verse that is about obedience to the king and how there's a time to just shut up and take orders. They were applying that to a corporate setting, to team projects they had been on where someone can start out with good insights, but when they start constantly shooting down everybody's suggestions, they probably should just shut up for a while and learn to just take orders. Or how when you're trying to make a suggestion to your boss, you can only push things so far before you need to just lay low and let him make his own mistakes. Mmmmm...contextualized scripture, it does a body good.

The interesting thing was though, that because the nature of the group was so specific that because I was not in the know, not just about Australian things, but about corporate things, I didn't feel like there was anything that I could have added to the discussion b/c it wouldn't have the same immediacy of application. Although you could argue that it was my fault for allowing myself to be intimidated, you could also say that it was the nature of the group itself. I do feel like it is a valid risk when forming "special interest" churches, outsiders will probably not feel as welcome or even necessarily be able to function. For example, my mom has functioned in a corporate setting all my life, so I have picked up a lot of the lingo and ins and outs of things just from listening to her talk about what's going on at work. What if I had had no knowledge of that whatsoever? I think one of the things that's pretty hot in postmodernity is forming these kinds of cell churches that really fit the needs of one or the other marginalized groups. I'm kind of reading a book on that right now, and I've got a lot more thoughts on house churches and the book specifically, but really can't write them out tonight. Someday, maybe.

It was an undeniably uncomfortable experience, but I'm glad I did it, if for no other reason than to add another dimension of experience to some of my other cell church experiences that I've had in the past. So many thoughts, so little time before the movie starts and I get counted absent...

Not about Halloween

So yes, the Great Ocean Road. This should be an interesting post b/c it is already 1:00 in the A.M. but I am already falling behind my posting in terms of what is going on here and events are starting to pass by more quickly than I can record them. So, this may not make sense, but at least it will be here. So, as I began, the Great Ocean Road...you'll be pleased to know that all of the landmarks are the same, the rock formations and the water, the waves and sand and bright air and big sky...the kind of endless water that entices you to dream of foreign destinations and adventures as big as the blue on blue horizon. But the one element that was decidedly different on this trip (besides not changing al fresco) was the social element. This time, instead of being with Thryn and a whole bunch of strangers, I was with a whole bunch of people that I knew, or rather, a whole van full of the more familiar brand of stranger. I felt though, that this trip was very good for us as a group. We lead such separate lives here, off in our own dwellings with hardly any contact besides tea breaks, growth groups and these excursions. I feel like in some ways some of the walls were broken down on this trip, perhaps for the first time in our semester I felt like we were a group, and not a conglomeration of completely separate cliques. And then, there was that day at the Gibson steps...

It all started well enough. The Gibson steps are famous, and so we, being good little American tourists, stopped to walk down them. The waves were large and enticing, and though we were warned straightaway that the undertow was fierce, wading ensued. Many lamented the lack of swimsuits (bathers, for you Aussies) and so some (the indomitable Katie O. and Thryn) just decided to go in w/ their clothes on. Well, then other people w/ clothes on were dragged or pushed into the water or splashed until it was just no more use trying to stay dry. I was one of the fortunates who got dragged into the water, fully clothed. It was so much fun though, we splashed around in the water and chased each other and tried to knock each other down and tried to get other people wet who remained dry and ran all around dancing like lunatics and got sand EVERYWHERE and just generally enjoyed life and our temporary liberation from the classroom. We were liberated in a lot of ways that weekend...

Pause for reflection: It is atypical of me to get soaking wet with all my clothes on, and I only find this to be more true the older I get. I think of the consequences, I plan ahead, I go through different scenarios in my head ("Well, I didn't bring a towel, what if I'm too cold when I get out? Will we be going back to our cabin immediately after this? Do I have anything with me that could be damaged by the water?" and etc.). Katie O. put it to me so well this weekend, "Shannon," she said, "you've just gotta stop thinking so much." And so for one afternoon I did, I was in the in-group, the wet crowd, the people who were having fun, the people I would have envied if I had stayed dry on the shore. And the thing of the thing is, that's who I wish I was more often. A little less rational, a little more fun, more carefree, more willing to take chances if that's what's called for in order to really experience life. So here's the question that I've been mulling over ever since. Who am I really? Am I the person that I tend to act like most of the time, reserved, thoughtful, and above all, deliberate? Or am I the person that I act out when I am trying my hardest to be the person that I really want to be, the person that I am working towards inasmuch as I feel myself capable of change? I still don't know...

Anyway, my other favorite part of this second trip was a part that we actually hadn't seen before, a rainforest walk in a place called Melba's Gully. I think I am finally coming to discover that I am, solidly and undeniably, a tree hugging, forest-sprite wannabe nature nut. There is something about being in such a place that energizes me, calms me down and quiets me, no matter what craziness I was mucking about with before. I love to take photos in the rainforest because of the interactions with light and water that take place there. A fern frond backlit by the sun, a tender shoot growing in a rotting log, the slow and breathtaking unfurling of a fern finger. It's like everywhere I look some little nuance of creation is screaming for my attention: "Hello! Can't you see I'm a miracle, right here in front of you?" There is so much variation that takes place even in a short walk through, the changes from full sunlight to murky shadow to dappled path, a wide open clearing with enormous trees framing the distant sky, to a roof of those ferns, lovingly enfolding and shielding, brushing my head as I walk underneath. There is so much life there, even the dead things are already being used to support new life. And of course, a plant can't just be a plant all alone. You can have a tree growing with moss on one side of the trunk, some other kind of prickly foliage on the other and yet another plant growing in the forks of the branches. There was even a sense of new discovery that was pervasive, like maybe I wasn't the first person to walk through here, but it may be that I'm the first to notice how the light hits that little cataract of water or how feathery this one clump of moss looks. This all sounds a bit hippie-esque, but I hardly care. I'm just trying to reflect the experience accurately.

Well, after we got back from our trip it was time for the Halloween party. I was going to say something about that as well, but I feel that it is not quite worthy of keeping me up all the way until 2 in the am, and this post is already quite long enough. But I would like to say, for your sake Katie, that in the decorating I did make a rather spectacular arrangement of post-verdant greenery. That is the most noteworthy thing you can choke out of me tonight.

Aeh-I must go to bed. I have consecrated tomorrow as a day in which work much take place all day long, and I will be subjected to the most fearful sort of ire and rage (my own) if I sleep in tomorrow...goodnight.

Take the floor

You know, it's kind of denigrating, especially for a future writer (ha!) to read other people blogs who have 46 or 37 comments on each entry and then come home sweet home to my own little blog and stare down the barrel of straight zero's since I don't know when. Just a thought...

Sydney-Fling

Oh, fine little internet. Isn't it funny how you can just log on and fall in and doodle about for a seemingly unlimited amount of time and then something happens like a bird flying into a screen glass door and you're snapped back into reality, suddenly asking yourself, "Now what did I get on here to do?" Wretched little cybersnare.

At any rate, I will try at this present point in time to inform the general population of the universe about my recent trip to Sydney and the various and sundry things that happen there. Hopefully I can manage not to be too long winded, since I kind of hoped to do about 1/2 my research for my exegesis paper this afternoon and have only read one commentary (again, I blame the internet). Well, we spent just about all of Friday on the train, but then on Saturday we got up and managed to get out of our hosel (such as it was) fairly quickly and headed right for the Harbor. Most of that morning was spent at that indomitable edifice, the Sydney Opera House. I have to say, I have seen a fair number of famous buildings in my time, but I think from here on out I will have a very special corner of my heart reserved for the soaring lines and vaulted spaces of the SOH. It seems funny to most of us now to think of the controversy that surrounded the planning of this building, as well as the public scorn it was met with initially, before becoming the emblem not only of Sydney, but of all things Australian. It is, obviously, a very unorthodox design, but brilliantly executed and so sensible when you learn more about it. The design for those large and characteristic arches are drawn from a perfect geometric sphere, so the ceiling can be made almost entirely from concrete (great for accoustics) and yet not need any interior supports that would obscure the view of an audience. The curved ceilings of the concert hall, the intimate spaces of the playhouse, the Australian hardwood paneling, all of this was engineered for the purpose for which the SOH was built. Even the multitude of stairs, based of the idea of stepped Mayan temples, were fully intentional, indending to carry the idea of ascending away from the common world into the fantastic world of the theater.

And for me, that is the heart of the Opera House, not just a great feat of engineering, but a truly beautiful building. It sits out on it's own platform over the sparkling water of the harbor, admired from both sides and all angles (I should know, we saw pretty much all of them). The clean white lines hover over the waters, resting serenly as a gull on a rock. Yet the hard-edges and dramatic curves give it a sense of power, of calmly suspended motion, and if it ever springs back into the action from which it seems to be resting, the city better watch out. I love the way in which the building draws together the ancient and modern, curves and angles, movement and stillness, land and sea. There is something quite magical for me about a space entirely devoted to creation, to splendid music, the soundtracks of humanity, and to the creation of fantasy worlds, to the telling of our stories (because Medea, Twelfth Night, The Dollhouse, Death of a Salesman, and 6 Characters in Search of an Author are as much my stories as they are anyone's). Perhaps part of the design is meant to capture that wild and unearthly spirit of the Arts, the participation in the creative process, both grueling and divine.

We spent a great deal of time that day in and around the SOH; it rapidly becomes very difficult to tear yourself away. The rest of the day was spent happily exploring The Rocks district arts market, clambering over the harbor bridge, trying to dodge the crowds of brides that infest the area, having their pictures snapped. That evening we met up with a friend of Katie's at her college, they were having a fall party. It was a nice party, lots of food and the girls who planned it spent a lot of time coming up with games and entertainment for everybody. It was nice, but a little disconcerting since it was an entire party full of people that I didn't know, and I'm not the kind of person who likes to invest time and energy and risk my fragile self-esteem putting myself out there to make friends if I'm only in town for one night. But still, nice party.

The next day we were up and out bright and early to attend the much famed and controversial Hillsong Church! It was an interesting experience, just to see how my response to the whole idea has changed since my time in London. It was in fact, completely identical to the Hillsong church I attended while I was in London, as all Hillsong churches are entirely identical to each other. They are good for what they are, but I have more problems with the whole idea than I did a couple years ago. The worship is nice, but it really honestly is awfully concert-like, and sometimes I do feel like I'm being manipulated. Why is this the case when I'm on their turf, and not true when we sing Hillsong music at my home church or at school? I don't know. Also, I thought it was really funny that in a city that is as multi-cultural as Sydney, everyone on the worship team was Caucasian. The message was interesting too. A woman spoke on Psalm 103, about all the benefits that we have as Christians, about how we don't need to live in fear that life will be awful because God doesn't really love us or want us to have good things. A good message, but I was kind of nervous because the whole framework in which she put her message was our entitlement as the people of God, our right of access to the blessings of God. I don't really believe that the Christian life is a kind where we go around with our hands out all the time, demanding things from God on the basis of his promise. God knows that most Christians do not need their sense of entitlement to be further inflated. I don't want to be overly critical, because the individual points were excellent and well made and passionately supported, but I felt like the framework of the whole message was one that was so theologically unstable.

The rest of the afternoon was spent at the beaches. I could write a whole other entry on Australian beaches, let me just say, this isn't your average American day out. The weather was beautiful, though not quite hot enough to make braving the icy water altogether worth it, so we didn't spend much time swimming. The beaches themselves were gorgeous as well though, and it felt good to lay out in the sun and just not have to think about anything for awhile, except maybe what our friends were doing in drizzly Melbourne or frigid Houghton. :-)

That night was one of paramount hilarity, but I think I could not possible make it make sense here, since we were so jagged from eating almost nothing but pancakes and candy for the past couple of days, so we generally staggered around laughing like drunkards and everything struck us as funny. We spent a great deal of time stumbling around in the dark of the Royal Botanic Gardens, looking for the fabled "Mrs. Maquarie's Chair." We may or may not have found it in the end, it was honestly too dark to be altogether sure. But we did come to a chair shaped bunch of rocks that had the name Maquarie carved in the back, so our reaction to the semi-failure of our little quest is best summed up by Misty's immortal words: "This looks like a frickin' chair. I'm sitting in it!"

Our last day in Sydney we took a train out to the Blue Mountains. The Blue Mountains do, in actual point of fact, manage to look respectably blue. Something about a gas that's emitted from the gum trees that cover everything and hangs over the valley and horizons, giving a blue cast to every particle of light that ventures into the valleys. I love the Blue Mountains. The horizons are hazy and full of alluring and beckoning possibilities. The trees form a thick carpet over everything that can be see from the lookouts, displaying a myriad of green shades and textures. White cockatoos can be seen winging their way somewhere far, far below you. The Blue Mountains would be a place that I can see myself returning to, getting lost in those mists for a few years and discovering every nook and cranny of, eventually coming to fully own it and allow it to own some bits of me as well.

After we returned from the Blue Mountains, after stopping for a 60 cent soft-serve cone from Hungry Jack's (aka Burger King, for those of you who are stateside) we were back on the train for the 11 hour overnight push to Melbourne. And tomorrow morning...we turn right around again and leave for our weekend field trip to the Great Ocean Road. Yeah, it's a rough life, I can tell ya...

Biff

Okay, I know it's been a while since my last post and I do have so much that I wanted to talk about, but tonight my brain is just fried after not getting much sleep for the past two nights, so anything I wrote would be crap anyway. Please forgive my continued lack of communication. I will update any interested parties on the Sydney trip as soon as I am able.

The Big 5-0 (My golden post!)

Hey, this is it guys, the big post number 5-0. I feel like I should have a cake or something. Unfortunately, there is not much of very great import on which I can speak in this particular entry. This past Saturday we spent the day at Sovereign Hill in Ballarat, which is like a kind of recreation town that tries to mirror what life was like in a mining town in the 1850's during the Australian gold rush. What's that you say, you didn't realize that Australia had a gold rush too? Well, let me tell you there was an Australian man by the name of Edward Hargraves who ran off to look for gold in California and came back without having had much luck. But he did notice that the climate and the plant life of the two places were rather similar, so he tried to do a little prospecting down here. That was where he got really lucky, and started the first Australian gold rush in about 1854. Good story, eh? Well, Sovereign Hill was actually pretty well done as a historical thing-jigger. The staff all dressed in costume and tried to talk as if they were really back in the 1850's. There was a man who stopped us in the street and asked, "Excuse me, but is that how young women dress in the colonies?" I think we caused quite a scandal, running around in men's denim trousers. We also got to go to a school house, where we had to practice our writing in old style font with pens dipped in inkwells. I think Pete must have been sweet on the teacher, he was asking her how old she was. And Katie, naughty girl that she is, was passing notes in class. The teacher made sure to warn us that there was no laughing or talking in her classroom b/c school is not meant to be fun! We also got to see a guy pour out a gold ingot into a mold, which would have been worth some insane amount like 50,000 dollars. I have to say though, when he pulled that red-hot crucible out of the furnace and started pouring the gold, all I could think of was the forging of the rings of power, it looked exactly the same. Nerd. We got to see British infantry march and fire off a salute to the flag (union jack, of course). The mine tour that we did was actually really interesting, they basically showed us all the reason why it was basically insane to go and work for one of the company mines. You could fall down the shaft of the "safey" elevator and plumet 3000 feet to your death. You could get caught in an explosion, flood or cave in. You could get silicosis from breathing in the quartz dust. Or you could get pneumonia from coming out of the intense heat of the mine to a freezing cold winter temperature. Sound's like a great job, right? Well, at the end of the tour we also had a train ride back out of the mine, which was kitchy but fun. Hope, I have to say that I was thinking about you all day, first from the gold thing ("I only wish that I could have had more gold!") and then this train ride reminded me so much of the Underground, they even had fake plastic guys standing around and a fake explosion/mine cave in thing. Oh Bad Bob, how I miss you, darlin'!

Ummm...yeah, but I almost forgot to tell you the best part. They had this old timey band playing outside of the post office and me and Katie and Diana went over and started bouncing around a bit b/c they were playing a catchy tune. So, I see this little Asian woman out of the corner of my eye and stop dancing, and she starts pulling on my arm, and starts bouncing around like we had been. I got the message. A moment of hesitation, then what the heck, I just started up my little hoedown again. She starts waving to her tour group and they're all taking pictures of us. Katie's laughing at me, but then the woman drags her over for her picture and she plays along too. Soon Diana, Katie and I are all in a picture together with this woman, and when she's done she motions the man in the red sweater who had been taking her picture over and he takes some pictures with us. We're posing like lunatics of course, kicking up our heels with these goofy smiles on our faces. By now we have attracted quite a sizable crowd of Asian tourists, all of whom are snapping pictures. Wow, I don't remember the last time that something so funny and random happened to me! (Cultural question: Why is it that Asian people seem to need to take pictures of everything?)

In addition to photo crazy tourists, they also had this creek where you can actually pan for gold (which the staff puts in every so often, but at least it is real gold). It was funny b/c I could see how easily it could become an addictive behavior for the miners. Like, just one more pan full of dirt, this'll be the one where I strike it rich. It was hard not to get gold fever, especially b/c I seem to have an aptitude for panning.

So there you go, my day basking in the golden glow of Sovereign Hill. I have to admit, I wasn't really looking forward to this particular excursion, but it actually turned out to be a lot of fun. Wahoobie.

On Being Nothing

So, today was the big trip to Sovereign Hill in Ballarat, which is what I am supposed to be writing about for my journal tonight (I really do have an academic purpose (albeit a small, minor one) for keeping this, in case you never realized). I will have to do this eventually, but not tonight. Tonight, I have many other thoughts buzzing through my head. Thoughts pertaining to all of the things I am not.

Some people who walk the planet today matter. Some lead fantastically interesting lives. Some sacrifice themselves for the good of their community or the world. Many, many more sit on their asses all day and push paper for some piece of crap,faceless corporate bueracracy. What kind of life would I like to have??

Sometimes I sit and ponder all the things that I cannot do well. I generally come at this from a positive frame of mind, more like an "all the things I can still learn to do" kind of perspective. But it seems generally to me that I am one of the accursed, a very average kind of girl with monstrously fantastic aspirations. Even as I sit and type this, I am in the exotic land of Australia, the bane of explorers and showcase for the strange, a place that should thrill me with its foreignness. OK, big deal. I live in America: I get up in the morning, make breakfast, go to class, talk to people, go back home. I live in Australia: get up in the morning, get yogurt and cereal for brekkie, go to class where the teacher has an accent, go home. WHERE ARE MY ADVENTURES??

It seems to me that the time of adventures has passed. Now people look at what I'm doing and say, "Ah, studying abroad, what adventures you'll have!" But as I have just outlined, not much has changed in the basic shape which my life takes, whether I'm there or here. These are the adventures of my life, riding into town on the train, going out for Chinese food, walking down to the bakery for a cake or pastie??? It seems like nowadays no one is crossing the deserts with a train of camels, no one is hacking their way through the jungle with a machete, no one is climbing to the peak of the tallest mountains to sound a barbaric yawp, no one is hacking through the ice to hunt for a seal to stave off starvation, no one is taking to the sea in a glorious and tall-masted ship to sail for parts unknown.

And who's to say that I should be the one to do any of those things? When it comes right down to it, I am a very small, very weak little girl who is not particularly good at much of anything. How could I sail the sea or cross the desert? There are some days when it seems like I can barely cross the street. And yet, in spite of my inability, the yearning remains, the desire to be something more than what I am, for my life to mean great and mighty things as it is lived out in great and mighty deeds. I really do want to be THE MIGHTY SHANNON! In fact, it is one of the terrors of my existence that I will grow up to be...(*squinch*) a soccer Mom, driving ungrateful kids hither and yon in a mini-van, cooking mulifarious cassaroles with cream of chicken soup while my fat and boorish husband guzzles beer in front of the tube. *Massive shudder* Perish the thought, take me now, Lord!!! Where is my damn machete, I'm outta here! (Honestly, I should not have gone there in such explicit detail, I am still convulsing with horror).

How to escape that dreadful, dreadful life that seems to prey upon the unwary? How to make a mark on this dizzy little planet, how to shake the stars and all the heavens with an act of valor, done worthily with a noble heart?

My nice little Christian sensibilities tell me that I should end these musings (rantings?) with some nice little statement about how I should just suck it up and be graciously, cheerily satisfied, that it's fine with me if I end up teaching a kindergarten Sunday school instead of speaking for presidents and kings. But I am not okay with that. I refuse to live that life. Perhaps those of us who are granted outlandish dreams are given them not so that we may be thwarted and tormented by them, but because a life of meaning really is possible. I want to live a life among the stars. I refuse to allow my fears to keep me earth-bound.

Harold and the Purple Crayon

I worked really hard all weekend so that I could just take Monday and go spend the day in the city doing whatever I wanted to do, to finally start doing some of the "Melburnian" things that I've wanted to do since I got here, but never quite got around to doing. So I got my camera, a bottle of water, and a map, and set out. I started out in Flinders Street station, the hub around which the city spins. It is a bright gold building, and could be considered rather garish if it weren't so lovably full of character. Right across the street I went on a photo spree in St. Paul's Cathedral (obviously not THE St. Paul's, but a fairly good southern hemisphere substitute). They have beautiful stained glass windows, like all respectable cathedrals, and I also got the chance to go around this little passageway and find that the quilty thing that I had stared at the time I was there for an Evensong service was not actually the front of the church! The front is being restored, but I got to have a peek at it and it is actually a beautiful marble mosaic. It strikes me though, that they would care so much about the beauty of their church that they would make this elaborate quilt-like facade to hang just while the restoration is being done. Evangelicals need to get back on the wagon in terms of art and worship spaces. Also, there was this group of school kids visiting the cathedral, and they would go around and take notes, they would kneel on the kneelers provided in front of whatever feature they wanted to take notes on. It was a striking image, a line of school girls with ponytails and bright blue coats all kneeling in a church for purposes that had nothing to do with prayer and reverence, but just academia. I think that might be why I found it so noteworthy, but then I'm still not sure.

Around St. Paul's you can find the statue of explorer Matthew Flinders, and in a separate monument, the statues of explorers Burke and Wills. It is ironic that these are the men who are given statues, since if you know anything about Australian history, their expeditions were all failures to one degree or another. Then again, if you know anything about Australian culture, you will realize that they have this tendency to make heroes out of their losers. And then, there is something oddly appropriate about good old Matty Flinders standing there year in and year out with bird crap all over his head...

After that I passed the Melbourne Town Hall (which I have walked past about a million times without ever realizing what it is) and the Melbourne Unity Building, which is an Art Deco monstrosity and looks like a skyscraper made from a golden lampshade, and went up Collins Street. Collins street is one of the ritziest addresses in Melbourne, and all the Swells were out in full force that day, pushing past me, jabbering into their cell phones, in their neatly pressed Italian suits and slicked back hair, all of it screaming "LOOK AT HOW IMPORTANT I AM!" I felt rather small and in-the-way as I strolled along, taking pictures of all the glorious Victorian facades I had admired for so long.

I continued on my walk up to Spring Street, where I saw the Treasury buildings and on to Parliament. I read that there was a riot which lead to a siege of the parliament building in the not too distant past, and if you look on the front of the building you can still see the gun slits that they made to allow those who were defending the building to shoot people without ever leaving the safety of its confines. And I looked and sure enough, there they were. History right there in front of me. I went on past the gaudy edifice of the Princess Theater, all fake gold leaf and hot pink signs advertising their production of Dirty Dancing, and on to the ornate arches of Chinatown.

Those of you who have recieved a card from me recently probably know that Chinatown is a place fraught with peril, but fortunately in the daylight it manages to behave itself rather well. I stopped at the Korean lunch box and ordered myself some noodles and...other stuff for lunch. I have no idea what the other stuff was, I just pointed to what looked appetizing and they dished it up (camel's hump,anyone?). But I made out like a bandit, the food was so cheap and good and I got to sit under a beautiful red laquered Chinese arch and eat it out in the open air with chopsticks. I then peeked into the Chinese museum and moved on from there to check out some of the shops. To be honest, they are mostly kind of kitchy, with statues of golden Buddhas and those lucky kitties with one paw raised (now they even have ones that wave that paw at you mechanically for hours on end) and junky jewelery, but if you look around, you can still find some beautiful treasures, and it's the hunt that I have always found most satisfying. The strangest place I visited was this place that looked like a candy shop, but instead of candy they had tons of different dried fruits, like prunes and plums and cherries and mandarins and lychees and mangos and ginger. Then, in another set of cases, they have a ton of dried fish products, including cuttlefish (which is like squid). The whole area smelled like the flake fishfood you would buy at a pet shop. The weirdest part was definitely the little bags of snacks that they were selling that definitely had a picture of a cartoon cuttlefish on it, to make it more appealing for the kids. Now eat your squid, honey...

It was also in Chinatown that I found this random little side alley that has all these signs down at the one end. They look like parking signs, but instead of actual parking sign content they have mottos like, "There is no forwards, there is no backwards;" "I have examined myself;" and "The best kind of man would be like water." I'm pretty sure they were Taoist sayings because of the content, but I'm not at all sure how they got to be there, since there weren't really any buildings in the alley besides restaurants.

Well, I did a little more poking around in some of the arcade shops, I found a wonderful art supply store and an amazing store which sold journals and albums and address books from Italy, but for a standard size, leather bound notebook it costs, drumroll please, $120 (gasp of horror!!!). But they were amazing beautiful and well made, and it was fun to look at them. It's actually pretty hard to find nice, not to expensive blank books in Melbourne, so if anyone feels inclined to buy me gifts... *wink, wink*

But it was a wonderful day, I went all over the city, I took a million pictures, I walked myself ragged and I just thought I would like to share the events of day with you, my dear friends. Thank you for your kind attention.

The Rubicon (just kidding, it's only the last post about break)

Okay, I am going to try to squeeze the rest of break into one last entry and still not have it be super long, so bear with me as I attempt the impossible. Well, first of all we found this amazing hostel to stay in in Adelaide which gave us free rice and free hot apple pie with ice cream and custard every night. There was a dear old Scottish man who owned the place named Peter, and he had been all over the world but had finally settled down to run this old hostel in Adelaide and he was the custard master. So every night while we were working on dinner, he would come in and putter around and fix the custard and pop the pies into the oven. And then about forty minutes later, he comes back in and sticks his head in the oven to check on the pies and with all the ire and righteous indignation one can imagine,this dear sweet old man says, "Shit!" by which he of course meant that the oven was broken and the pies, as yet, unbaked. Thryn and I had to focus very hard on our plates of rice in order to keep from laughing. But at any rate, we could not enjoy the company of Peter for as long as we might have wished to, because we were soon off from the pleasant green hills of Adelaide and on our way to Kangaroo Island. We had to book a tour in order to see KI, but I'm glad that we did, because it ended up being one of my favorite parts of the trip.

KI is like wildlife central for Australia, so we got to walk on the beaches with the sea lions, stand face to face with a koala, and cuddle a baby kangaroo (that last part was a big bonus, Flinders Chase Visitor center had taken in a joey who's mother had been hit by a car, and we got to have a little visit. So soft!!!). We also got to see NZ fur seals, echidnas, wallabies, and one fairy penguin. Then the second day we got to go on this hike through this big rocky gorge that had a stream flowing through the bottom that was so clean we could drink out of it, even though the water was red. We also got to see tea trees, which is where tea tree oil comes from. My dad has always been a big believer in the merits of tea tree oil, so I was excited to see the source for myself. The rocks in this gorge were amazing, metamorphic layers all along the bottom with metamorphic rocks of all different kinds along the path, and pieces of loose limestone mixed in which had fallen down from higher up where the walls were sedimentary. They even had caves up along the ridge of this kind of gorge thing. It was a geologists paradise. Then we hiked all the way out to where the gorge meets the sea, but we couldn't go too far out because the gorge suffers from "freak waves." This basically means that you can look out on a wide empty beach about 200 feet away to the waves one minute, and the next minute, the water can be up and soaking your shoes. There's a narrow little opening from this beach out onto the sea, and a bunch of waves will all surge in at once and move up the beach as quick as lightning. It was such a cool place.

I think the thing that made the tour really worthwhile though was the fact that Toni, our guide, was so amazing. She was fairly young, and she had this amazing sense of humor that was really engaging and helped us to feel comfortable joking around with her right away. She was really interesting too, she knew so much about cultural things and she had travelled around quite a bit, as most people in Australia seem to have done. She was a regular naturalist, with all the different things that she knew about the plants and animals and even geology. She wanted to know what I thought about the gorge that we hiked through and how it was formed, so we swapped opinions about subduction zones and tectonic movement. Then the one night that we stayed on the island we got to sleep in this adorable little farmhouse with a little kitchen and a loft and a barbie in the front porch and kangaroos roaming around in the front yard. It was such a fun tour, I really love KI and I would go back in a heartbeat.

The last few days we spent around the bustling metropolis known as "Magnificent Quorn" (okay, so it's only Thryn that calls it that, and it's an incredibly dinky town, but we had a good time. We were exploring the Southern Flinders Ranges, which is an incredibly beautiful area north of Adelaide. We climbed a couple of mountains (Dutchman's Stern and Devil's Peak) and hiked through Warren's Gorge (aka the Valley of Bones and Flies). The hiking was great, because it cost us money for every little hiking point the hostel people drove us too, so we would basically just go to one and stay all day. We ended up spending a lot of time just out in nature, sitting on a big boulder and staring at an amazing view. There's something about that experience that is so purifying to the soul, you know? Devil's Peak was insane, it was so rocky and there was almost no trail, but I really enjoyed the challenge of climbing. At the top there was a kind of visitor's book where everyone who had made it would sign. The entries in there were pretty funny. My favorite was "Erasmus was here." Warren's Gorge was pretty crazy. First of all, the amount of flies there was absolutely insane. I don't know if they just prefer the low places or what because we were much more bothered by them that day than the other days. Also, there were many bones and dead kangaroos in this particular valley. And the day that we went through was particularly cloudy and ominous, and the place was so strange that it was quite portentious, I was definitely expecting a dwarf or a witch to pop out or for something of mystical quality to happen. The other great thing about "Magnificent Quorn" was that our hostel had a whole movie cabinet full of WESTERNS!! Which meant that one night, after a full day of climbing, we ended up chilling with, that's right, Gunga Din. Quality, quality film, although I will say that Cary Grant has THE worst fake British accent I have ever heard. Well, after such thrills, what can be left of an adventure except a tortourous all night bus trip back to the cozy confines of urban living?

And it is there friends, that my epic tale must at last come to an end, and so, once again, for the time being, I bid you adieu.

Still On Break...

Well, I’ll try to move through the rest of the break a little more quickly rather than take two pages just to do one day (although I think we can all agree that that was quite a monumental day…). The rest of the tour was pretty normal, the second day we went around to all the famous sites along the Great Ocean Road, like the 12 Apostles, London Bridge, the Grotto, and the Bay of Martyrs. Although, well, one funny thing did happen that day. We were on this random beach that didn’t really have any famous things on it, but I was trying to take a picture of the foam rolling in, all lacey and white. So I was quite close to the edge of the shore and this kind of rogue wave rolled in and so I started backing up really quickly to avoid getting my feet wet, but the sand was deep and sucked at my feet and I got bagged down so, Wabam!, over I went, falling right on my butt in about 3 inches of surf. I struggled to my feet pretty quickly, but the back of my jeans had already gotten soaked. So we rode to the next beach, the 12 apostles, and I had to sit in our van with my wet pants. But then I saw a chance while some others were going on this expensive helicopter ride and I asked our driver if I could get into the trailer in the back for my pack. And so, as I was rummaging around back there, he saw the forlorn state of my trousers and was like, “Geez, what happened to you?” And so I explained to him that I had fallen, but I had an extra pair of pants to change into and could he please leave the trailer open so I could go run and change? And he was like, “Well, if you wanted, you could just change here.” And I looked around, and he was right, there was no one around. So he just went around the other side of the trailer door and I changed pants in the lovely fresh sea air. Word.

So anyway, the third day started out as a bit of a disappointment because it was cold and rainy and so we drove around like, “Hey, that’s the beach that’s rated number 1 in Australia, anybody want to get out for a picture?” “Nope.” And we also had to miss seeing a petrified forest because of the rain, which sorely disappointed by. But it was also because we missed that that we got to see a composite volcanic cone, sadly extinct, but still really cool. The day finally cleared up, so we got to spend some more time looking at tide pools along the shore and it was nice and clear for our big barbecue dinner that night. The next day was comparatively kind of dull, but still pretty fun. We saw this giant lobster statue that Thryn was quite thrilled by and also a pink lake (beta carotene, don’t ya know?) and we stopped for lunch at the Coorong Wilderness place and had kangaroo balls (don’t worry, just meatballs made from kangaroo meat) and we had a little talk from a man who was descended from Aborigines and he talked to us about the plants in the area and what the Aborigines had used them for. But I think even though the day was enjoyable, I was pretty relieved when we finally pulled into Adelaide.

As for the next day, well, the less said, the better. We pretty much just walked around Adelaide to different travel agencies and spent massive amounts of time in the library on the internet trying to figure out what we would do for the rest of break. We knew that we wanted to go to Kangaroo Island and to either the Grampians or the Flinders Ranges, but transportation issues were just not working out, and we were either going to run out of money or spend the rest of our time in Adelaide doing pretty much nothing. So we were quite dejected most of that day, and then I think by the end of the day, even when we got back to our hostel, we were pretty sure that nothing good was ever going to happen again. But then that night Thryn started making a few more phone calls that night and things finally started falling into place. The day, as a whole however, was not a pleasant one. We like to call that one Black Wednesday.

The next day, however, made up for that by being rather fantastic. We met up with Susannah’s friend from camp, a girl named Eve. She was really a cool person, fun and outgoing and outrageous and warm and helpful and just generally awesome. We spent the day around the Adelaide Hills area, we got my first Aussie pie in Handorf, a little German town, we took lots of free samples at the Melba chocolate factory, we poked around this tiny toy store with the kitschiest ever souvenirs (not surprising, since it’s mascot was a giant steel rocking horse). Not only did they have this amazing piece of monumental art, they also had quite an aviary. So, naturally, we ended up dancing with a rowdy crew of sulphur-crested cockatoos, which are quite rhythmical, apparently. Then Eve took us back to her house to make stir-fry and noodles for dinner and we got to meet her family, and all was quite well with our souls, though they had been replete with abrasions from the turmoil of the previous day. More next time, don’t worry kids, we’ve crossed the halfway point!!!

Super long, but interesting... (1st Day of Break)

Okay, now to what everyone (all four of you; ah, well, actually I have no idea at this point how many people read this blog, for all I know it could number in the millions) actually wants to hear about, the break! I will warn you from the get go that I will not be able to write this whole thing all at one go because SO MUCH happened over the course of thos two weeks. It was really like having 3 separate breaks. So I will try to stick to the highlights, but still this will give me the ability to give a more detailed account of my journey. So, the first phase of our voyage was the bus tour that we took from Melbourne to Adelaide along the Great Ocean Road. But, in order to explain this trip more fully, I will have to back up to before we even departed.

So, we were downtown about two hours before our bus was scheduled to leave because we needed to look for a book we were reading for class. Plenty of time, right? Well, then we decided to go down to St. Kilda for lunch and we had still about another hour before the bus was supposed to leave (for those of you keeping score we never found the book and had to give up). St. Kilda is probably about a 15 minute bus ride away from where we needed to meet the bus. So we ride out and are looking for a place to eat that will be cheap enough and finally just decide to grab some pizza. The thing we had not figured into the equation is the fact that it would take some time for the pizza to cook. So we sit and bite our nails while the pizza is cooking and as soon as we get them we rush out the door to find the bus stop. By this time we only have about 20 minutes left before the tour is scheduled to depart (and keep in mind that we had also never received the e-mail confirmation we were promised by the bus company confirming that there were seats for us at all). So we find a bus stop and look at the time table and discover that the bus will not even arrive until 10 minutes before we are supposed to leave. We don’t know if another bus that goes where we need to go will be stopping at some other stop and we don’t know where to walk to get back for our bus. We just have to wait. So we sit, again biting our nails, while the wind is tearing down the street, freezing us half to death. The bus finally comes and we wait through each agonizing stop, watching the minutes tick by. We get out already about five minutes late and start sprinting from the bus stop to our pick up site. Thank God, the bus was still there, but they told us as we arrived that one of the drivers had just been on his way to call HQ and tell them they were leaving without us. Now, I ask you, do you need any more proof that God’s tangible favor is resting on us?

But, at any rate, it was after we climbed sheepishly onto our little bus, mumbling apologies to the other passengers, that our vacation finally got underway (btw, I think it was this initial lateness that made it so that Thryn and I never got to sit next to each other the entire tour, since people tend to settle down wherever they first decide to park themselves in situations like these). The thing that you have to understand from the get-go is that this was no ordinary bus tour. You should go to their website (Wayward Bus tours), their very indie and organic and probably they all eat a lot of brown rice. But the whole point of the company is to have bus tours for people who don’t like the idea of going on bus tours. The “buses” are really more like large vans and the tour groups are no larger than 21 people. They tend to be younger but are definitely not all students and they come from all over the world. So we set our for our first day of amazing driving. The Great Ocean Road was designed to be like the Pacific Highway One in CA, so the first part skirts right along these cliffs on the ocean coast on a very windy road. The weather was not especially nice, kind of rainy and cold, but that fact made it so that about half an hour of our drive we were in view of the most beautiful rainbow I have ever seen, Technicolor bright, a complete arch spanned out over the ocean. For a good portion of that time it was so bright that it made a double rainbow.

We stopped at a lot of really pretty beaches that day (great OCEAN road, get it?) with water that would roll up to the shore in crashing arches, the color of clear glass after its been worn down by the sand for a couple of years. But, describing all the beaches would slow down the narrative, so moving on to Apollo Bay, where we stopped for the night. We were sitting in the kitchen when one of the people on our tour came to ask us to borrow pepper. He paused when we gave it to him and said, “We’re making a fondue, would you like to come.” We must have looked quizzical because he went on to explain, “Well, we’re Swiss, right, so we wanted to make this fondue because it’s been so long since we had one and we’re really used to having it and we miss it. We don’t have the right stuff, the right cheese, the right wine, but you could come and taste it anyway, some Swiss fondue, eh?” Well, we said that sounded really neat and we might come over. So after we finished our dinner of pasta and weird tomato tuna sauce, we looked at each other and said “Wanna go?” “Yeah!” and off we went.

We walked over to their flat and knocked timidly on their sliding glass door. As soon as they saw us, they started cracking up with laughter, but waved us in. They introduced themselves, and then explained to us the ins and outs of fondue, all the while apologizing because theirs had turned out so hilariously poorly. They were sure that it was substandard, but I think we just thought, “Hey, melted cheese and bread, where’s bad?” Well, after we tried about a slice of bread, they pulled out a pack of cards and asked if they could show us a Swiss card game. It was pretty simple, a lot like playing spoons except instead of grabbing spoons we were supposed to slap the table. They explained that it was usually a drinking game, but that they didn’t have enough alcohol left, so we couldn’t play it that way. After a few hands, someone got the idea that instead of a drinking game, the last person to slap the deck would instead have to play another little game called “Truth or Action.” It’s basically a different name for truth or dare, just with a card game added. I think they could tell that we were a little leery, because at first the things they were asking were so benign, like hopping around on one leg and yelling, or saying where and when we were born. But then things got a little rougher, first they asked Cedric to eat a clove of garlic, and then they asked me what I thought of President Bush and then, well, then more questions were asked, although at that point the tide of the game had turned and Maud, one of the Swiss, was losing more hands and she just answered them in French (they all knew like 4 or 5 languages) so we were largely spared. We also had some interesting conversations about our respective cultures; mostly centering on the fact that we were disturbing their confident belief that life without alcohol is not actually possible. Christophe actually asked us, “How do people, like, hook up, or become couples?” We were like, “I don’t know, I guess they just talk about it.” Heads shaken in utter disbelief, understandable since apparently in Europe people can’t become couples, socialize, communicate honestly or basically exist without the saving grace of alcohol. Oh, the Swiss. But they were seriously very kind people, like even though they weren’t doing anything terribly scandalous, Christophe kept telling us that this was just the way that they were, but he knew we came from a different kind of culture so if anything made us uncomfortable we should just go ahead and say so. They kept saying, “Oh, you will go away from here tonight and have such a terrible opinion of the Swiss!” Actually, Maud came to find us after we went back to our part of the hostel just to apologize for the way they boys had acted and say that she hoped we had not been offended. She was so sweet and earnest, and we assured her that we had enjoyed the evening immensely. Very true, but also true that this encounter did forever alter my opinion of the Swiss. :-)

Sorry guys, they won't all be this long, promise...

Not quite what you want to hear about yet...

Well, even though the news is quite stale at this point, I have to say at least a few words about our visit to Healesville Sanctuary because I’m required to for our Engaging Australian culture class and also because I was just having an interesting conversation with Thryn about some of the things that I could say about it, so I thought I’d stop conversing and start writing.

Well, it’s interesting to reflect on how I feel about the experience after my break travels, because I’ve really changed the way I think about it a lot. I think initially I enjoyed the experience, in spite of the incredibly cold and drizzly weather. I liked the chance to have a close encounter with these animals that so represent the native Australian fauna. But when I think about the experience as a whole, I think it represents more about Australia than perhaps it ought to. I think the image that stands out most starkly in my mind are the languid eyes of the browbeaten kangaroos, lying around in their pens submissively allowing tourists to pat them while their pictures is taken. Or there was the Tasmanian Devil who paced manically around his cage, running laps with restless abandon. I think the kangaroos were the worst, they were so lackadaisical and their eyes said that they were heartsick. Oddly enough, it made me think of the way that Aborigines were portrayed in Greater Nowheres and Tracks, lying browbeaten and drunk in the middle of a dusty road or an old, dry creek bed. I think there is a common link between the two images, something about taking things that lived here for centuries free and on their own terms caging them, taming them, putting them on display so that everyone could ogle these “primitive” and exotic creatures. And now, well now they lie around in the hot sun and maybe just wait to die because they’ve been institutionalized and all their spirit is gone and tourists can come and pat them on the head and take their picture.

The other funny thing is the way that the staff of Healesville viewed their project. They seemed to be really defensive about the fact that it was NOT a zoo and the animals could either come to the keepers or not come of their own volition. Well, how does the bird show, where birds of prey are flown around a stadium after bits of meat. And why aren’t the koalas allowed to go up in the tops of the trees where they would live in the wild. They have to kept at eye level so the tourist can snap their pictures. I sympathize with their plight, because they have to balance the goals of educating the public with the goals of taking care of the animals, but they seem to be quite ready to defend their position as an advocate for the animals, rather than their wardens.

Really Long Post--"An Answer to Fear: Exploring the Practicalities of the "White Australia" Policy

So, most of you probably won't find this interesting, but I'm posting the paper I just wrote anyway. It's about the extremely racist policies that were put in place during the time of Australia's federation because of certain insecurities the nation felt b/c of their lost ties with Britain. Good stuff. Peruse as you fancy...

"An Answer to Fear: Exploring the Practicalities of the "White Australia" Policy"

The time period surrounding Australia’s decision to form a federation was a tumultuous one in many ways. The change over caused something of a crisis for the former colonies because of the loss of their close ties with Britain, which brought with it feelings of military vulnerability, economic instability, and anomie about the issue of national identity. The laws and mindsets of the White Australia Policy were an attempt to address the fears and concerns that were prevalent during the time of Federation by restricting immigration and promoting a native Australian population.

There were many reasons that it was believed that restricting immigration would help to stabilize the Federation. One of these reasons was that many Australians believed this would solve the economic problems that were facing the colonies at the time. Trade unions were a large part of promoting these beliefs, maintaining that high rates of immigration were contributing to a shortage of work for native Australians. One of the reasons pointed to was the fact that foreign labor was so cheap; it was common to pay two shillings a day for a laborer from the Pacific Islands, four for a Chinese laborer, and seven for a white laborer. The fact that foreigners were willing to work so cheaply was seen as undermining the unions’ work for a better wage. This problem was only exacerbated when foreign labor was used to break strikes. The seasonal nature of agricultural work in Australia also led to a high degree of competition between white labor and foreign labor, causing many Australians to believe that to allow the entry of any foreign labor would inevitably cause a loss of jobs for white laborers. These fears were even more deeply engraved into the Australian psyche during the gold rushes of the 1850’s, when a greater number of foreigners were coming into the country than ever before. In 1855, more than thirty ships carrying Cantonese migrants landed in Australia, by 1858 one in every ten Victorians was Chinese. After a time of heavy influx of migrants, it was feared that foreigners would never cease to pour into the country. It is understandable that people feared immigration would threaten the existing population when one considers that “The inflow of gold rush migrants in just two years exceeded the grand total of convicts who had arrived in the eighty years of transportation.”

Another reason that restricted immigration was seen as a solution to the identity crisis at the time of Federation was that it allowed Australia to establish itself as a “white man’s land” from the outset. It was largely to further these ends that the Australian Natives Association formed. By the 1870’s, native-born, white Australians had become the majority. But these increased numbers did not automatically lead to a more cohesive sense of nationhood. Many of those who had been born in Australia scorned their native land and insisted on continuing to refer to England as “home.” It was within the organization of the Australian Natives Association that this new national identity was intended to be formed. This society tried to set itself apart from similar British societies, with their old-world class distinctions. However, membership in the association remained a formal aspect, as shown by the practice of certifying members (see figure 1). These associations reinforced the idea that native Australians were white Australians, helping to give a more settled feel to the matter of identity.

Another major concern in deciding to form a federation was the militarily vulnerable position in which Australia would be left. In the 1870’s, Britain had decided to withdraw their troops and leave Australians locally responsible for their own defense. Even before this time, Australia had reason to feel anxious about their own defense simply because of their geographic isolation from the protective “mother land.” Also, the 1894 Anglo-Japanese treaty was a cause for much consternation. This treaty gave rise to a new awareness among many of Britain’s colonies that Japan had risen as a new world power, which was of especial concern to Australia because of their proximity. This led to an even great fear of the eventual prospect of occupation. It also showed Australians that Britain was still intent on pursuing its own interests in the Pacific and that they would have to take the initiative to protect their country. However, Japan was not the only restless superpower which caused some anxiety among Australians. It was also during this time that Russia was taking over Manchuria, China was being carved up by the European superpowers, America, with its demands for an “open door policy,” was making its presence felt in the Pacific, and France and Germany were not shy about participating in the land grab. All of these factors made a defensive build-up seem prudent. These feelings of military vulnerability left Australia especially sensitive to the fact that large numbers of foreigners were now attempting to enter the country.

When the idea of cutting ties with Britain was entertained, Australians developed a preoccupation with seeking to fill vast, “unsettled” areas of the country in the west and north. The thought of new immigrants coming into the country made many uneasy because of the fear that foreign settlers could eventually question their right to effective proprietorship. Trying to settle an entire continent with only four million people was not a very practicable solution, but many felt that if this was not accomplished, Australia would not be able to make a case for their claim on the land. Many bookshops of the time were stocked with novels on the theme of “invasion.” Anxious thoughts were filled with pictures of descending Chinese and Mongol hoards that would come and tear the country away from the white settlers as they, in turn, had taken it from its original inhabitants. The political cartoon in figure 2, which was run in The Bulletin, is a good example of common sentiment at the time; it shows obviously caricatured Chinese people breaking into to people’s very homes through cracks in “Deficient Immigration Laws.” It was also during this time that a republication of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire led to parallels being drawn between the demise of mighty Rome and the recent decline of power which Britain had experienced. These parallels gave rise to the fear that the time of the white race was ending and unless drastic actions were taken, they would be forced to succumb to the increasing numbers and advanced technology of Asia. These rather jingoistic fears also played a large role in the decision to restrict immigration at the turn of the century.

All of these fears and concerns led to the decision that something had to be done to restrict immigration. One of the first bills that was passed after the formation of the Federation was the Immigration Restriction Act of 1901. This act became the centerpiece of what was to be known as the White Australia policy, legislation that was aimed at excluding all non-European migrants. However, the terminology of this law could not express that explicitly. British approval was needed to allow the bill to be written into law, and Britain would not have allowed any legislation that would have offended their new Japanese allies with racist rhetoric. Therefore it was decided that the dictation test, first developed and implemented in Natal, South Africa, would be used to screen out non-European immigrants. The initial suggestion was to implement the test in English, but this was decided against because it could discourage desirable northern European migration while encouraging undesirable Japanese and African-American migration. So the specification eventually decided on was “any European language” in which the proctor should decide to conduct the test. Initially, the specification caused difficulties because most customs officers conducted the test in the language they were most comfortable with: English. Because of this oversight, four Indians were able to pass the test, which caused an immediate public outcry. Officials responded by training the customs officers to use the test to effectively bar the entry of any non-European person. From 1932 on the dictation test could be given at any time within the first five years of residency, and the test could be repeated any number of times, but it was unlikely that these loopholes ever had to be utilized, since no one managed to pass the test after 1909. It was very unlikely that someone from northern Europe would be asked to take the test at all, unless they fell into one of the other categories of immigrants that were deemed undesirable, such as those who were insane, anyone who was likely to become a public burden, any person suffering from a contagious disease, as well as prostitutes and (ironically) criminals.

Along with this piece of legislation, the Pacific Island Laborers Act was also created in 1901. The purpose of this act was to allow for the deportation of the vast majority of Pacific Islanders after the end of December 1906. Of the 10,000 Pacific Islanders living in Queensland and New South Wales at the time, only 700 were exempt from deportation. The act also imposed limits on the number of migrants from the Pacific Islands who were allowed entry before 1906 and encouraged emigration for the current population. These two laws, as well as some others passed during this time period, were intended to shape the character of the newly federated Australia, establishing a white identity and stabilizing the Commonwealth economically and defensively.

However, in spite of these well-intentioned legislations, Australians still faced a dilemma. They wanted their population to reflect their British roots, and yet they still needed to settle the “empty” regions of the country. One of the ways they sought to accomplish this was by decreasing “desirable” immigration, soliciting candidates from Britain and northern Europe. Not only was propaganda a major part of this scheme, but there was also financial assistance to encourage people to take advantage of the opportunities of Australia. Australia Unlimited, a book published by E.J. Brady, was full of lively descriptions and photos depicting the boundless opportunities the land could offer an enterprising settler. The dual nature of Australians’ attitudes towards immigration is well expressed in the political cartoon (shown in figure 3), which shows the mixed messages that many immigrants received. It is significant, too, that the immigrants portrayed are Italian, as they would have been one of the groups who received different messages based on the degree to which their appearance allowed them to assimilate into mainstream Australian culture.

However, it was not just immigration that was placed under greater government control during this time period. Another major goal of the White Australia policy was to maintain racial purity, which meant that the number of native, white Australians had to be increased. Because of the perceived health of the climate and the lifestyle of Australians, it had historically been perceived as a kind of breeding ground which would, given enough time, produce a superior race of human beings. This lofty goal was behind much of the opposition to immigration, based on the desire to keep bloodlines pure. Because the production of white male babies was seen as vital to both the defense and the development of the country, it was the Australian mother who was placed under scrutiny, especially when studies uncovered a recent drop in the birthrate. A newly formed Commission on the Decline of the Birth Rate and on the Mortality of Infants in New South Wales reported that any desire to restrict fertility was “characteristic of a decadent state of society.” Women’s use of birth control and other methods to control their fertility was seen as “selfish,” a product of their indulgent desire to enter the industrial world. Unfortunately these opinions ran against those which the mothers themselves were forming in the time after Federation. Increased levels of education for both men and women contributed to these changing ideas; the demand for more children was in conflict with the aspirations of many Australian families. It was largely considered to be more immoral to give birth to a child they couldn’t afford than to deprive their country of one more citizen. For them, having fewer children was an opportunity to be better, more dedicated parents.

However, because the need for more native Australians was so strongly felt in the public ethos, the issue of fertility became not so much a personal preference as a matter for state action. For many politicians, quantity trumped quality because of the ultimate need for a large population to perpetuate the race, win wars, and claim the land. In order to encourage their goals, the government banned the importation of contraceptives and birth control information, and introduced a “baby bonus” of five pounds for every white child born in order to discourage abortions. Not only mothers, but cities were also blamed for the decline in birth rate, and were seen as disease centers which polluted the healthy and wholesome Australian way of life. Many doctors recommended that people be sent to small country farms, which had the added bonus of providing incentive for them to have large families.

In spite of these differing opinions, both government and families agreed that it was essential to Australia’s future that the infant mortality rate be cut. Increased medical knowledge made an instant advancement in discovering how to thwart the major killer of young children: diarrhea. But the government was seeking a more all-encompassing system through improving the sanitation system, establishing infant protection acts to prevent infanticide, and improving education on mothering practices (or “mothercraft,” a term which was coined in this era). The picture in figure 4 shows a meeting of a mothering class, with all participants proudly holding a healthy and robust little one. But beyond the propaganda aspect of this image of joyful motherhood, it is also interesting to note the posters on the wall, admonishing the maintenance of a healthy diet and the reminder that babies are a woman’s “rare pearls.” It was also during this time that metropolitan areas began to establish large women’s hospitals and maternity wards as “monuments to motherhood,” as well as infant welfare centers. The photo in figure 5 shows a baby being weighed by a nurse at one such center to check the health of the baby. It was agreed during this time that better education in mothering was key to producing healthier children and families, which was in turn, key to securing the future of the nation.

However, in spite of these efforts, the baby craze never quite caught on to the degree that the government had hoped it would. Although the importation of contraceptives and birth control was banned, it was not illegal to produce them inside of the country and information concerning their use was, by this time, beyond the government’s ability to control. Furthermore, changing ideas and cultural tides rendered much of the propaganda too little, too late. But in spite of not achieving the immediate results desired, this campaign did have a lasting impact on the Australian psyche. A slogan from a New South Wales “Baby Week” broadside sums up the sentiment well: “The nation that has the babies has the future.”

The attitudes and mindsets that were prevalent during the time of Federation were reflective of the fears aroused by the loss of ties with Britain. Foremost in the minds of many Australians at the time were fears of economic instability, military invasion, and a loss of national identity. The White Australia policy sought to address the fear of economic instability by removing competition through restricted immigration. It also sought to secure the country against military invasion by prohibiting an influx of immigrants who could challenge the claim to effective proprietorship and by encouraging a baby boom to supply more Australians to fight for and fill the country. And it shaped the character of the nation by affirming a white identity through attempted removal of any foreign presence and an emphasis on bolstering the native population of Australia. Although these policies served to direct the nation through this pivotal and formational time of their history, they would prove insufficient and misguided as a lasting paradigm for future generations. However, these matters would have to sidelined, as the focus shifted to the all-encompassing problem of a Great War in Europe…