These photos are doing my head in. I wonder if they put this bird down after photographing it or if they left it to die a horrible oily death? Or if it was taken to a rehabilitation centre and cleaned up?
I have been trying not to think about the birds in these photos.
All I have heard reported in the media is the failed attempts to plug the leak and stories about police not allowing access to the heavily polluted beaches. Admittedly I don’t watch much television and a lot of my information about the oil disaster is coming from twitter.
So I will ask you my American friends what is happening on the ground in Louisiana? According to reports on twitter the oil has reached Florida.
I clicked over to this site www.ifitwasmyhome.com which was able to give me an idea of the scale of the oil disaster.
I have zillions of words swirling around inside my head but none of them will behave for long enough to come together in a straight line. So I will finish up with a photo of the Wedgetail Eagle that was in my backyard the other day. These birds are critically endangered here in Tasmania and I wonder how long it will be before they are just a memory.
My ancestors were boat people. Irish convicts transported unwillingly to Australia. I grew up in a working class suburb full of immigrants. New Australians they were called then. My father was casually racist and his language was the language of his peers. I was taught to be wary of wogs, wops, krauts and coons. The New Australian kids were different and their sandwiches at lunch time smelled funny. So of course we teased them. Australia’s national food was the meat pie and everyone had a roast for Sunday lunch.
Then I grew up and so did Australia. I grow bok choy in my garden and make sushi for my grandchildren. Sunday lunch might be a Thai green curry or Moroccan lamb. Australia has benefitted greatly from our multiculturalism and there is a lot of hope for the future.
But I feel that there is a black cloud of doom lurking just over the horizon and it has to do with our politicians and the popular media’s attitude to this generation of boat people. If our leaders demonstrate intolerance and the media reports in a frenzy of protectionist nationalism what hope is there for ordinary people to be heard?
I was down at the market last year and my son and his mate where looking at tshirts with humourous quotes printed on them. Deeper into the rack of t-shits were some with, not quite racist but certainly horrible slogans such as, This is Australia we drink beer, play cricket and speak English and other such small minded intolerant shit written on them.
My son’s friend wanted to buy a t-shirt that said, piss off we’re full.
Anyone that knows me in real life knows that when something pisses me off I get loud and *Hmmphy*. I explained to my son and his mate exactly why I found the t-shirts so distasteful. The salesman enthusiastically pushed his view that the t-shirts were just a joke and I pushed my view that they were crap. I reminded the stallholder that we are all boat people here mate and he would do well to remember it.
I huffed off from the stall and loudly lectured the boys on tolerance, well aware that I was being extremely intolerant of the bogan twat selling the shirts.
The experience left a sour taste in my mouth and I have been meaning to write about racism and intolerance for a while now. But I really don’t have the words other than to remind those that cry the loudest about the perils of the boat people to remember where you came from.
To remember that except for the Koori people we are all descended from immigrants here in Australia.
To remember that we are all the same under our skins and that hate begets hate.
Fe photographed two opposing protests at the Villawood detention centre and the APP have been commenting on her blog post, The face of Racism
My friend Anne,also writes eloquently here in her piece, aptly titled the lucky country and I would recommend that you go and read both blog pieces and then tell me what you think.
Hello out there my lovelies. I am sitting here perched on the edge of the couch tapping away at Mum’s laptop, I am trying to get a rhythm together to write something about the past week but it is hard when I am not at my desk. Confused? I will try and explain but before I do, if one more person smugly tells me to get a Mac just remember that I know where the zombies lurk, and I will give them your address.
I have needed a new desktop for a long time now, the one I was using was ex council stock that Mum and I bought on tender three or so years ago and it was very very slow. The spouse’s views on computers are unprintable, he sees them as an extravagant waste of time and money. Where as I, on the other hand plan to take over the world via the internet and so I need a new computer dammit.
After lots of angst serious thinking both Vonnie and I decided to not make the change to Macs. As much as we lusted after a Mac we just couldn’t afford them as well as shiny new lenses for our cameras.
And now my brand new computer is broken aaargh and before you say anything, remember the zombies.
I am going to take it back into the shop today and hopefully they will just replace it.
But, my lovelies the computer is the least of my worries, today is the appointment with the head honcho at the paediatric unit of the hospital. The fact that the most senior doctor there wants to discuss Amy and Isaac’s blood test results scares me witless. Veronica wrote about it here if you are interested.
I had been hoping to do some work over the Easter break but time is just racing away from me. I will update this post when I get home from the hospital this afternoon. Fingers crossed it isn’t horrible news.
Updated: The paediatric appointment was just a formality, there is nothing to worry about at all. I am sure Vonnie will write about it soon. Thank you very much for your kind comments. I am sorry if I worried you.
The lovely people at Harvey Norman replaced my computer. So now I will be able to continue on with my plans for world domination muawahahaha…….
This is a question I asked on twitter last night as I tried to de-stress from a hectic day in a classroom where the forces of stupidity were strong.
There are two students in my Art theory class who need the simplest of concepts explained to them in great depth making a simple fifteen minute introductory session, stretch into an hour of eyeball stabbing frustration.
There is also one rather large bombastic young man who very seriously told me that he had never been a teenager because he had been a chef at 15. I couldn’t think of a reply to that statement as I was trying not to choke on my coffee.
At least in this group we don’t have the obligatory over sharer who feels compelled to regale the class with anecdotes of their time living in a grass hut, building fires from camel dung and drinking yak milk smoothies or some such other sensory delight.
To be totally honest I know that I am the flippant smart arse in the group who, when things get particularly grim in the stupidity stakes bursts out with a one liner and of course that wastes more time.
Sometimes listening to one of the students carry on I feel like Yoda is on my shoulder whispering to me, “The stupid is very strong in this one.” I am in danger of developing a nervous wince when ever they open their mouths and even now I am shuddering as I remember a particularly painful question and answer time.
On the upside the class is interesting and I keep on thinking of that old saying no pain no gain.There are also some really talented people in the group who are as frustrated as I am. I just wish that sometimes the painfulness of being in a group situation where the class moves along at the pace dictated by the slowest learner in the group wasn’t quite so sharp.
