Mount Migently Manifesto

Dec 22, 2012 | Arts, Australian Values, Citizenship, Cultural Values, Democracy, Economic Values, Education, Immigration, Indigenous, Legal, Lifestyle & Life, Love, Media Values, OzPol Values, Racism, Religious Values, Science Values, Values

Mount Migently Manifesto

Australian Values

Australian values have lately been enthusiastically asserted by some Australians and Sir Roger has been much impressed – in much the same way a washed-up prize fighter feels the repeated impressions of his opponents’ fists in his guts.

These assertions of “Australian values” tend to be energetically debated:

in Melbourne with French and Indian visitors to Australia on trains, buses and trams,

in university college meetings in Sydney,

in the halls, offices and party rooms of Parliament House in Canberra

and particularly on commercial radio breakfast programs everywhere.

Sir Roger was reeling from the onslaught and disheartened by the proponents’ ignorance, illogic, idiocy and illiteracy; by their fear, spite, narrow-minded prejudice, stupidity and frankly pre-agricultural social views.

Someone had omitted to convey to them that for their brain to operate as advertised it is necessary to update the database regularly and to calibrate it with reality.

Someone had omitted to explain to them that the texts on which their ethics are based and with which they (selectively) justify much of their self-righteous bombast are not actually sacred but were all simple rulebooks written thousands of years ago to enable the social control of brutal sand tribes, to suit their primitive times and conditions, calm their existential terrors, alleviate their ontological horrors, excuse their ignorance and justify their brutality.

Someone had failed to explain to them that the foundation myths, the stories of Australia on which they hang their narrative of Australian culture, are just that. Myths. It never happened, Bruce.

It’s just like when your girlfriend lied to you – you weren’t the first.

Dismayed by the galloping erosion of the humane, generous, fair and tolerant values of his Australia Sir Roger therefore repaired to the mountain top seeking counsel and wisdom from the winds, the silence and the intelligences of the cosmos.

Sir Roger was generously granted that counsel and has returned from the mountain top bearing enlightenment.

Over the next few days and weeks he will share with his world these insights into the best of human and Australian values.

On War: Notes For My Son

May 27, 2012 | Arts, Australian Values, Capital Punishment, Corruption, Democracy, OzPol Values, Values, War

On War: Notes For My Son

…and for yours, and for all of us.

Sir Roger is currently in the land of the poppy (the other one) but not near Flanders fields. Yet there are poppies here in the South of France and the whiff of war and bloody conflict is inescapably, faintly, background to all.

And so it was a cold and brassy wind which blew through Sir Roger’s eye sockets and resonated in his skull and rattled the bones of his skeleton when Les recited this poem, perhaps the angriest, truest, most biting and chilling verse of war Sir Roger has ever heard.

Notes for My Son

~ Alex Comfort

Remember when you hear them beginning to say Freedom
Look carefully – see who it is that they want you to butcher.

Remember, when you say that the old trick would not have
fooled you for a moment
That every time it is the trick which seems new.

Remember that you will have to put in irons
Your better nature, if it will desert to them.

Remember, remember their faces–watch them carefully:
For every step you take is on somebody’s body.

And every cherry you plant for them is a gibbet
And every furrow you turn for them is a grave

Remember, the smell of burning will not sicken you
If they persuade you that it will thaw the world

Beware. The blood of a child does not smell so bitter
If you have shed it with a high moral purpose.

So that because the woodcutter disobeyed
they will not burn her today or any day

So that for lack of a joiner’s obedience
The crucifixion will not now take place

So that when they come to sell you their bloody corruption
You will gather the spit of your chest
And plant it in their faces.

Sir Roger: Archived in Perpetuity

Feb 26, 2012 | Arts, Australian Values, Citizenship, Cultural Values, Fame, Freedom of Speech, Media Values, OzPol Values, Values

Sir Roger: Archived in Perpetuity

Fame of a Sort?

Can Lordship be far behind . . .

Sir Roger has just received a request from Canberra saying that the National Library of Australia wished permission to include ValuesAustralia.com in the PANDORA Archive of Australian websites.

So … Sir Roger … archived in perpetuity . . .

That’s a kind of immortality.

Although, as Woody Allen said,

“ I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying.”

Its fame of a sort, one supposes.

It’s better than not being archived, certainly.

So that’s nice.

[Sir Roger said yes.]

Education and Life

Jul 6, 2011 | Arts, Australian Values, Cultural Values, Economic Values, Lifestyle & Life, Values

Education and Life

Be Normal and Fit In

Sir Roger’s close confidante writes:

My mother used to ask me if I wouldn’t prefer to work in a bank. In those days it was a safe occupation – safe as a bank, literally. A job for life with almost guaranteed promotion. I don’t think she was joking.

Both her brothers – my uncles – worked in banks and eventually became bank managers.

She married a doctor. His job was secure as long as people got sick or had babies.

Her father was an Anglican minister. He’d always have a job as long as there was a god – or as long as people believed there was.

I think my mother wanted me to be safe. She worried about my creative, artistic, unworldly temperament. If I relied on it, it might not lead to stability and security. The bank was safe if unexciting and the school system was the ideal training for future decades of boredom and repetition.

And that’s how parents tend to think.

First we want our children to be safe.

Second we want them to do well and succeed.

Third we want them to be normal and fit in.

And we want them to find someone ‘nice’ to settle down with and raise a family (for the most part).

We encourage our children to be reasonable and more or less ordinary; to be ‘realistic’. That’s the way it works, that’s the way things are, that’s the recipe for survival and success.

Mediocrity.

And that’s what schools are exceptional at producing.

Nothing important or worthwhile that has ever been achieved in the world has been achieved by reasonable, realistic, mediocre people. They have been achieved by people prepared to be unreasonable, to see beyond the realistic to the possibilities and to fight to achieve them.

And that’s who our children are before we school them.

Indeed, replied Sir Roger, schools are not only exceptional at producing these results. That is their primary function and the original purpose of the compulsory education system in Prussia to which all modern education more or less owes its tradition. Obedient hardworking bureaucrats, obedient unquestioning factory workers. Today’s office slaves.

Bruce Petty once somewhere said (or drew) something close to,

“ Having reproduced the species, efforts are made to have it employable as cheaply as possible. Through persistence and determination many survive these deformative years and go on to be average.”

Anzac Day 2011

Apr 25, 2011 | Arts, Australian Values, Corruption, Cultural Values, Democracy, OzPol Values, Values, War

Anzac Day 2011

Carnage incomparable, and human squander

On this Anzac Day:

If there is one thing that can be said of war it is that it is a massive betrayal of Humanity.
It is a monstrous failure of human imagination, vision, ingenuity and intelligence.

It is an unconscionably, and intentionally, blind refusal to allow any other possibility.

It is a willingness of the old and corrupt to inflict permanent damage on the young and innocent for the sake of what?

Impermanent, pathological and ugly ideology.

Whatever justifications and rationalisations may be made, war is the coward’s way.

War is the easy choice of the cheat, the sneak, the corrupt and the fake.

Or the delectable first choice of the bloodthirsty and the brutally mad.

All this can be said of the political “leaders” who lead their regiments from behind, who conduct their precious wars safely from behind a desk (under which they are probably fondling a small but hopeful erection) in a place far away from flying bullets.

It cannot be said of those whom we honour on this Anzac Day. For whatever other reasons they went to fight, they have also gone to fight to protect us and we are grateful. And we are sorry for the pain, the damage and the horror that they became because they could not forget. As we should not.

Peter Cundall has a new CD out and it’s not about gardening.

An iconic Australian unleashes the raw emotion of the world’s greatest war poetry. Australia’s beloved gardener shows a very different side as he reads anti-war poetry. With orchestral music accompanying the readings, this is a rare insight into ex-Gunner Peter Cundall’s life in war.

Here’s a taste. You can buy the CD anywhere, including ABC Shops. [Update: availability uncertain]

And here is the full Sassoon poem:

Aftermath – Siegfried Sassoon

Have you forgotten yet?…

For the world’s events have rumbled on since those gagged days,
Like traffic checked a while at the crossing of city ways:
And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow
Like clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you’re a man reprieved to go,
Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.
But the past is just the same,—and War’s a bloody game….
Have you forgotten yet?…
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you’ll never forget.

Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz,—
The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?
Do you remember the rats; and the stench
Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench,—
And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?
Do you ever stop and ask, “Is it all going to happen again?”

Do you remember that hour of din before the attack,—
And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then
As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
With dying eyes and lolling heads, those ashen-grey
Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?

Have you forgotten yet?…
Look up, and swear by the green of the Spring that you’ll never forget.

Here is Dylan Thomas reading of one of our favourite anti-war poems (if there could be such a thing):

Naming of Parts

Naming of Parts – Henry Reed

To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,

We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,
To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And to-day we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For to-day we have naming of parts.

And this is perhaps the great Wilfred Owen’s most harrowing poem:

Mental Cases

Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
Baring teeth that leer like skulls’ tongues wicked?
Stroke on stroke of pain, – but what slow panic,
Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
Ever from their hair and through their hand palms
Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?

– These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.
Memory fingers in their hair of murders,
Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander,
Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.
Always they must see these things and hear them,
Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles,
Carnage incomparable, and human squander
Rucked too thick for these men’s extrication.

Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented
Back into their brains, because on their sense
Sunlight seems a bloodsmear; night comes blood-black;
Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh.
– Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous,
Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
– Thus their hands are plucking at each other;
Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;
Snatching after us who smote them, brother,
Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.

Lest we forget fail to get the lessons of the pointlessness, the tragedy and the inhumanity of war.

Especially on Anzac Day.

Joan Sutherland and Me

Oct 12, 2010 | Arts, Australian Values, Fame, Lifestyle & Life, Values

Joan Sutherland and Me

Vale Saint Joan

Sir Roger wishes to make a special personal note of his sadness at the death, of La Stupenda, Dame Joan Sutherland; the loss of one of the truly greats.

Her career properly began when “she won a two-year scholarship for vocal training with John and Aida Dickens in Sydney in 1946. The couple helped Sutherland develop the upper range of her voice, which would prove important in her development as an opera singer.” And with their help, in 1949 she won the Sun Aria.

This may be unremarkable except that, soon after, John and Aida Dickens migrated from Sydney to Tamworth, NSW, where Sir Roger’s pater, the Earl-Surgeon Edouard d’Migentlé – attracted to the idea of a career “to fall back on” should the practice of medicine fall through, and imagining that the fall-back position might be “The Opera” – sought the assistance of the famed John and Aida.

The Dickenses succeeded magnificently and crafted in Earl Edouard the most beautiful tenor voice you never heard.

As it transpired, medicine proved a sufficiently stable occupation that his singing was limited to the amateur field and particularly to operas of the D’Oyly Carte variety, although he always, wherever he went — and if anyone was kind enough to ask — seemed to “just happen to have a few pieces of music with me” if someone could be kind enough to muddle their way through some vague approximation to an accompaniment.

This would be nothing to you, dear Reader, except that the Earl-Surgeon felt that his children, also, might profit from something to “fall back on” and thus they were enrolled with Aida Dickens, Sir Roger being just 8-years-old. And thus he attended weekly piano lessons with Aida at her home in Belmore Street, West Tamworth.

And so it is that Sir Roger now feels himself, sharing her teacher, to be in some way a Brother-In-Arts, and now a bereft colleague, of the great Saint Joan.

Sadly enough, their teacher was the only thing Sir Roger and Dame Joan were destined to share. Sir Roger proved to be a little-talented and neglectful student who never completed Preliminary Grade. (He blames this on being forced to play impenetrable pieces by Czerny at such a young age.)

Sir Roger’s sister, La Princesse d’Migentlé was the opposite and went on to complete her A.Mus.A. in record time and with flying colours.

Nevertheless, Sir Roger can still play the first five bars of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata whenever anyone is kind enough to ask (and, to be truthful, even when they, frequently, request he not…please…)

Vale et benigne facis!