The populism that dogs today’s politicians – foreseen by Neil Postman (in “Amusing Ourselves to Death”) and testified to by Lindsay Tanner (in “Sideshow”) – is a lamentable consequence of “always on” media.

Is the opportunistic, narrative-absent populism of Gillard-in-government and Abbott-in-opposition now table stakes for political relevance? Will our future leaders all have to conduct themselves according to the Julia & Tony template; do they all have to be Gill-botts?

Are there enough of us around who see and worry about this? Is there anything at all that might improve this? Are there any signs that some of those improvements are underway?

By its very essence, populism makes un-popular – but necessary – reforms very difficult to enact. This is not to say that there aren’t popular reforms that aren’t also necessary. NDIS is a recent example (though even that one wasn’t universally popular of course).

At its essence isn’t all of this really a question of poor resolution of conflicts between self-interest reforms that are in (most of) our mutual-interest? There are factors other than media that fuel this of course (the limited time between elections being one), but the contemporary media cycle does seem to be driving this self-mutual interest conflict well into the red zone.

Is there a way through this to a new media environment where self-mutual interest conflicts can be more productively resolved?

Are there green shoots in the emergence of a less parochial, less beholden new media (Independent Australia, New Matilda for instance) while traditional media retreats to “safety” behind paywalls?

Too early to tell but I’m keen to find out, aren’t you?

 kevinshaun@me.com.

Go Back

One of the brilliant pieces written by students from The Monthly Masterclass

I have a sort of pornographic dislike of blogs. Today’s social media tells me that may be a dangerous thing. Listening to too many podcasts of journo’s writing long form articles and doing extended research and getting sacked and thinking about anyone who’s anyone making an unqualified expert statement on anything at all. A little bit like giving a toddler a medal for putting their toys away, or getting in the bath. Well done. That’s not special at all. Find something meaningful and resonant to say and then say it. So that’s when my fear and procrastination kicks in.

Yes, I am one of those. The aspiring writer who uses criticism of others as a defense for doing nothing at all. I am pedestrian I say. No one could possibly give a shit. This ain’t special enough. There’s a million people in the world more talented with more to say and better ways of saying it that me. And so. I remain silent. And surprisingly, if I open my mouth and say the things that I perhaps could have written then they are even more temporary, a moment in time which may or may not be vaguely remembered by me, or one or two others. And I seem more comfortable with this because there’s no record, no evidence, no proof. I get to keep the glory and hopefully forget the gaff.

But nothing, or not much, is still nothing. And excuses don’t help me sleep at night. In fact quite the opposite. And the reward, the sheer joy and reward of doing should be enough. But the fear mongering procrastination generating defect of character, the disease of the mind, remains as a parrot in my ear. The only answer is to write it out. The opposite is to ride it out, and the more silence there is, the noisier it gets. Deafening. Deafening.

The blog is a self-indulgence, like writing a journal and leaving it open on the kitchen bench. Flag waving look at me behavior. Self-seeking self-gratification. Sharing to make an impression. And so I stay silent. What do I have to give you? How could it possibly be important, what I have to say? Is my experience even relevant in the scheme of things when there are people looking after women and children’s rights in Rwanda and volunteers protesting in Egypt? And so I stay silent. Other than in the privacy of my own kitchen whilst I have an all in verbal brawl with Radio National. Doing the dishes and arguing social policy and crossing my fingers and hoping my vote counts. I remember years ago, when I was a teenager, my mother lamenting the state of our generation and it’s apathy. You know, young adult in the 60’s, Mum out front of Parliament protesting against Vietnam. I had a problem keeping myself open to the message, I couldn’t put together the idea of Mum protesting against a war and painting flowers on her car when she would shortly after marry a man who started out in his career fighting that war. But the message remains and, ignoring the details and difference of who she was and where she was coming from, I must admit that thought without works is dead. It is nothingness. And in a small way, activism of any form, self-indulgent or not, cathartic verbal crap aside, beats the alternative. Beats the hell out of the inside of my lounge room. Beats bitching about small-minded small poppies while I decapitate the competition and say nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

So, no need to blog, no need for a full-scale conversion, no need to go over to the dark side. But the point is there is a point. Never say never but so far I’ll not blog. I can stand up, act, have faith and then let it go. Wait for the outcome, but while I am waiting I must act. Work is work is work. Pressure testing my brain is not desirable, get it out, get it out, get it out.

This writing thing, it’s personal though. There is a line between the meaningful and the mundane, the pedestrian. Showing a lack of discrimination will require the death of a parrot or two, or at least the locking of the parrot in a robust cage. I must admit that I am so used to the presence of the parrot that I cannot imagine my life or my writing without it, but the parrot always wins, the little bastard, before I even start. Let us presume then, that rather than killing the parrot, we could retrain it. Give the parrot a whole set of new lines, or at the least a muzzle. The parrot will be permitted to come out at times and speak its mind but the standard response guideline will be “Thank you parrot, now shush, I am working”. Which raises a number of questions, not the least of which is, will my imaginary parrot survive or will it perish? And does it matter in the end? Will I remember the parrot when it goes or will the case be that I wake one day from a reverie to discover than it’s been a while and I hadn’t even realized it was gone.

I was writing about a sentence before, a life sentence, which I do have. Once upon a time I thought it was a death sentence but now I’ve managed to comprehend that it’s more like a community service order. Perhaps it may one day force me to say nice things about bloggers, because I’ll have to make amends otherwise, under the community service order. Perhaps it may mean that I’ll be saying nice things about blogs and not even realize I’ve said them until afterwards. Putting away the sword and locking up the parrot are a challenging concept. Sentimental objects that may not help me, that may no longer be useful and that are taking up additional space in an already busy and crowded mind. I get the feeling if I had my way I’d keep them in the back cupboard in the event I feel the need to take them out one day. My trusty shields, deflecting fear of failure and paralysis.

Now that I come to think about it, it’s a bit like what they say about snakes and bears. Stand very very still. Don’t try to run. Fear and paralysis. Bravery in this case may mean that sprinting at the Bear is required, that doing the opposite of what’s been done before today will bring a different outcome, that doing differently and not predicting the outcome may mean a healthy survival rate. The scary thing being there will always be a possibility that the Bear will eat me. Regardless of whether I freeze or I fight.

A simple guarantee is that if we freeze for long enough one of us is going to get hungry and think the other is a snack. And my money is on the Bear. It’s got better teeth. Not to say that my teeth aren’t ok, my dentist is astounded that they’re surviving considering the frequency with which I get a check up. Something along the lines of ‘beautiful, god knows how’. So let’s assume that I am confronted by a hungry Bear, on a regular, let’s say daily, basis. Experience has told me that if I freeze, then no one gets anywhere ever. Leaving ourselves open to the possibility that we may be eaten regardless, a swift addressing of the Bear may be the best alternative.

I Realized I had a Sentence When – Libby Neesham

I realized I had a sentence when things always seemed to be a little off track and I had no explanation other than I was crazy, and lazy and nothing and nowhere. It was more than a little ethereal at that stage. Didn’t make much sense. It took a breaking point, a rock bottom to get me there. And who would have known it could be liberation to be crushed so small you couldn’t breathe anymore. Who would have known that at the bottom the journey can start again. Who would have known that there’s a whole party of people down there working their way up again and putting a chain of hope and experience together to make it happen. Not me. Until I got there. And thank god. Looking back it’s clear as day that there was more than me going on, that that sentence wasn’t what I saw it to be. Yes, I was crazy. But crazy isn’t the worst thing in the world. Being trapped, totally stuffed, feeling unimaginable hopelessness. The lack of hope, the devastation. Survival only mode. Terrifying. And there, at the bottom of the heap, crushed and broken, it lifted. I know what happened, but my own ego still gets in the way of me talking to people who don’t share the sentence. Who else will understand? Years of pulling it off, being crazy without anyone knowing, just to give up the game by telling a story that’s so much more far out than any of the crazy shit that went through my brain before I crashed. Totally mental. If I told you you’d either think I was insane, or sort of misguided and in need of your pity. So I share only those parts with the few. What I can share today is the hope and experience and optimism that is now. The world has not changed. Not one bit. However, there’s been a shift from within that seeps out in everything I do and say and think and feel and share. That’s the bit that everyone else gets. Last night I was practicing qi-gong and I could see my own hands. Seems pretty ok as a concept, yes? Now I’ll mention that my eyes were closed and I was in a darkened room. I am a skeptic when it comes to weird shit like that. Supernatural strangeness. But with an open mind it’s amazing what you can achieve, and the truth of the matter is that I can see my hands with my eyes closed if I create the right combination of circumstances. And yes, to answer your question, it’s freaky the first time. I had a bit of a play with the idea when it first started happening. I was like, no fucking way, that’s ma hands! So I made them go away just so I could see if they would come back. And lo and behold they were there. Golden light and all. Tell me it’s impossible and I will tell you that that may be YOUR TRUTH. My truth is that I can see my hands when my eyes are closed, if I make myself very still, and I bring the universe inside myself, I can see my hands as outlines of energy, floating in black space. I went on to spend several hours walking around feeling like I’d smoked more pot than Willie Nelson. Clouds of it. Like that out of body experience you have when you disconnect completely. And getting back to the original point, way back when when I first started talking about the crazy lazy stuff, if you’d asked me then if I could do what I can do now. Any of it, not just the freaky hands trick, if would have said no quinoa. You’re mental. That’s impossible. So I am in a position today where I ask, how is it possible to make that change? The letting go and the seeing of the truth, not my truth, the truth, of my situation. And as I climb I form a link in a human chain, someone else is there as well and they need me, and I need them and…