Hi.

Also; ideas, as it were, lead us to topics.  Topics lead us to insight.  And insight leads us neatly to pancakes.  It’s also a smashing way to start a discussion.  Insight, that is, not pancakes.

And so the tale begins.

Somewhere, nestled deeply between “Which one was better, Jaws, or Nightmare on Elm Street?” and “Can you use cauliflower as a sponge?” lay a delightful platter of near death experiences.

For my part, it’s a summer vacation to Fraser Island with the folks in my teens.  A trip down to Lake McKenzie’s pristine waters.  The kind of water that’s so clear you can see ten feet below you; and beyond that, sparse leagues that disappear off the shelf into the cooler blue wonders of its abyssal treasures.

And as you do, we took a boogey board out into the middle with a diving watch and plumbed the depths.  The game was basically:  one breath, how low can you go.

After about the fourth attempt, we were already pretty knackered.  Four or five metres was about the extent you could manage before the ears started to pop and that familiar dead weight caused your lungs to burn.   Still, it was fun and we were keen.

The next dive was basically the be-all, end-all.  You knew you still had hours of swimming in you, but the fatigue of holding your breath that long, time after time, had started to take its toll.

It’s funny – on the way back up, I remember bumping into something.   At the time it felt hard and sharp, and without goggles, dim light that hampered sight any more than a foot or two infront of you, I immediately started to freak out.  Was that a shark?  What the fuck was it?

Turns out it was a turtle.  There’s hundreds of the bastards in the lake, especially in the summer months.  But, still on my way up, with metres still to climb, and with the dire need to take a breath threatening to bust out my chops as I gulped down mouthful upon mouthful of salty goodness (that one’s for you Lenko), panic struck.  That fucker did look like a shark.  Whatever air I had left just kind of exploded out of my mouth.

Thankfully, my mate had his goggles, and was conveniently watching the whole escapade play out from the safety of a calmer surface above.  Cue dramatic rescue, stage left.

I didn’t really drown or anything.  No tunnel of light or any of that business.  But it was definitely one of those “life before your eyes” moments.  Its ok now though.  I only occasionally wake up, skin a pasty shade of white, bed drenched with sweat, clawing at my imaginary wet suit and gurgling out for Mummy.  It’s not like I have a complex or anything.

Still, it does beg the question.  Have you nearly carked it?
And if so, wouldn’t you like to share your embarrassing tale among the tribe?

Like, right now?  On the webz?

He jumped at the gate and chomped at the bit, his eagerness was only matched by excitement. It wasn’t anything knew, he’d done it before, but it’d been a long time since succumbing to the enticement.

Some of them saw him as a bit long in the tooth. In fact, even he thought that of himself. But who are they, or even himself, to define if he’s past it?

When the gates dropped the crowd erupted, he knew and felt it was right. The moment he hit turf, he was surrounded by cheers, the pure spectacle of the lights and the night.

As he looked at the crowd, he saw the faces of friends, some who he’d thought lost to time. The air was electric and the emotion around him was carried like a current up his spine. It changed something inside him and his eyes widened, seeing things in a completely new light.

Looking back now to the track and seeing the end in sight; a bitter sweet taste in his mouth. For this was his moment, his return to the field. The last post means the end of the night.

He knew how to finish, no matter the placing; he pushed himself home to the stable. He dug up the grass as he gritted and galloped, needing to make the most of it while still able.

Crossing the line and slowing down; he calmed himself and collected his thoughts. The big show was over and content now, was he, to sit and lay in reflection. To think of the blur that had just passed him by and the lessons he’d just been re-taught.

Chances are few in these short lives of ours and for some it’s a lesson not learned. But this horse has learned it, the hard way at first; but now a new being born most unruly.

And this story I tell, you see for me it’s important.
It’s a story about a horse named ‘Yours Truly’.

Though he couldn’t, Dustin thought last night must have been one to remember.  He could remember visiting the hospital, dodging questions about his personal life, wishing his best to Daniel, and then escaping into the night.  He hated hospitals.  After that, he thought maybe he’d met up with some friends at the local watering hole.  Kyle, Dustin exclaimed inside his head as an image of his best mate bobbed around like an apple, he might have been there.

The headache that lingered was one of monstrous proportions; an eigentone that resonated deep along the walls in the space between his eardrums.  He could feel the harmonics as they ran along the jaw-line into his root canal.  Dustin clenched his teeth together.  It was really starting to give him the shits.  In a vain move to unblock his ears, he held his nose.  Hand cupped over his mouth, Dustin puffed out his cheeks.  Bad move, he thought with a wince.  Now his whole head throbbed.  It felt like an Irishman was dancing a jig on his grave.

As he slouched at the table, Dustin couldn’t help but feel numb and disconnected from his surroundings.  With the lanterns lit dimly as they were, all you could make out of neighboring patrons were their silhouettes; phantoms that whispered conspiratorially to one another, haunting visions that whose shadows flickered eerily on the walls.  Why am I here?

A kind of stoic solipsism washed over him, a gloomy introspection.  His surrounds kind of hovered and buzzed around the edges, like background noise, before finally settling into a dull hum.  He welcomed the respite.  Dustin’s focus returned to his chopsticks, and he watched as they fidgeted for greater meaning in his noodles.

A short time later, bangles chinked together and a hand darted in front of Dustin’s face.  Looking up, he could see it was Sascha.  She looked happy.

Smiling brown eyes parted high cheeks that swept out from a button nose.  It was a neat effect, so she said, as it gave the impression her eyes were larger than they were.  And that, so he’d been instructed carefully, was a good thing.  Full lips drew attention down a fine jaw to her slim neckline.  She was wearing a grey-wool sweater.

Sacha had a bubbly effervescence about her.  And even in dull mood, you had to work hard not to be infected by it.  He could see her grinning at him.  He smirked back and immediately regretted it.

“Aww diddums,” she said, pinching his cheek as the waiter slipped the chair under her. “Big night?”

Feigning aggravation, he rubbed at it. “Huge.”

“Do anything interesting?”

No response.

“Did you catch up with Kyle?”

“Kyle, where?”

“Last night.  You know, at the party.”

“The party?”

“You know: music, drinks, light entertainment, the pool, scantily clad women. Party.”

“Right.  The party.  Yes.”

“You don’t remember, do you?”

“No.”

Sascha plucked a miniature bread stick from the bowl in front of her.  She seemed content to nibble at it for a moment while she fashioned the next stage of her inquisition.

Sometimes, Kyle was just one of those people that got on Dustin’s nerves.  He was a self-professed genius, by his own accounts, to which various contraptions and ideas would’ve been attributed had they not been pilfered by his peers.  He professed to know a little about everything.  And somewhere, hidden behind those layers of pseduintellectual bravado, Dustin wondered it wasn’t a lonely soul who peered out at the world.  But for all his outward aloof, it was his doomsayer qualities that Dustin loved.  A self depreciation that can only be found in the noblest students of inward eschatology, destined to walk the world in search of some elusive and horrible truth.

“You’ll never guess what I was watching this morning.”  Dustin thought he’d better initiate something that resembled conversation before she strangled him with a napkin for arranging a dinner he wasn’t mentally attending.

“Surprise me.”

“Well, I flicked it on”, he said “and right there in front of me…”

“Yes?”

“Wiggles”

“Wiggles?” she looked puzzled.

“You know, the Wiggles.  They sing and dance.”

“Paedophile.”

“Shut up” and he frowned at her before continuing “so anyway, I figure that’s where I want to be in twenty years.”

“Singing nursery rhymes? Dancing with fluffy toys?”

“No, to still have an idea of where my toes are.  Those guys are pretty flexible you know.  It’s like new-age yoga; killer with the ladies.” He glimpsed up from his bowl to see if he got a rise out of her.  ”If I’m forty-five, pushing fifty, and can still bend like that… man.  Look out!”  He made a posing gesture as if he was midway through seventies-style rock photo-shoot, and he heard her chuckle.  But then she whacked him in the shins.

“Ok, let’s order.”

Dustin woke to find himself choking on a pillow, in precisely the way that pillows do if you gnaw on them.  This wasn’t his room.  Stumbling out to Saschas kitchen to grab a drink, he could hear the TV in the background.  She was silently wording the music to a late-night musical.

“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” He wouldn’t have picked it so easily had she not been twirling a cocktail umbrella in time with the music.

“Come back to bed.” Dustin said.

“Maybe.”

“I’ll give you a spoon full of sugar.” He said, wandering back in the direction of the bedroom.

“Nice try, Romeo.” She piped at his retreating back.  But as he turned around, she frowned.

“What?”

“Nothing, must be the light.  You just look taller.”

(This post continues on from 2-day tour (part 1))

I’ve recently been reading my way through the superb accounts of Ixion, one so lucky to be there when it all began…

Reminiscenses of MC – IXION (First published 1920-1927)
XI. ROADS.
IN spite of the huge sums which are expended on roads nowadays, they are certainly worse-probably much worse-than they were twenty years ago. The impressions of oldtimers like myself cannot, of course, be wholly trustworthy. The prehistoric motor demanded one’s entire attention, and no surplus faculties were available to criticize the road surface. Moreover, a youthful body is composed of fencing wire and indiarubber, so that it sustains lightly tribulations which would be torture to a forty-year-old. Again, the primitive machines were decidedly slow, nor did they grant us such long spells in the saddle that there was time to get cramped, for we were perennially hopping off to effect some small repair or to run alongside the labouring engine up some mild hill. Nevertheless, when all these allowances have been scrupulously made, I am convinced that the national road system has steadily deteriorated since 1900 or thereabouts.

There are two types of country road in Australia. Those that go ‘nowhere’, and those that just take a little longer to get there.

Our chosen route turned out to be the former, but in the meantime I was determined to experience this particular road through my bike which, after not even a year of being it’s proud owner, was increasingly becoming an extension of my body and senses.

No wider than a single car in places, and with a surface that had undergone continual spot-patching since the time of Ixion, his assessment of modern road conditions was certainly ringing true... Ringing through my palms and elbows, and resonating in my posterior, which was suffering from my ill-informed decision to wind up the rear-suspension stiffness for ‘improved handling’ in more favourable conditions.

Despite the numerous downsides to motorcycling that any rider will recount ad-nauseum to their ‘driver’ acquaintances, these quibbles certainly reinforce the joy of the exercise.  In fact, the more drenching the rain, numerous the intercepted bugs,  frigid the air,  numb the fingers, dusty and rutted the road – the better, as this all provides the adventurous rider a sense of ‘being alive’. Certainly a resounding joy will be soaked up like a hearty soup on a freshly baked bun when those obstacles have passed, but in the meantime they make a good story on later telling. I’m sure these tales of hardiness contribute to the mysticism of the motorcyclist, but also serve to paint as being a bit strange.

Our road at this stage was heading along the base of a long gully between adjacent eucalypt forested ranges. Prosperous-looking farmland occupied much of the gully-flat and on occasion a thoroughbred, pleasantly enjoying some lush hay, would perk up and race us along their fence line. At close to 4-o’clock the air was becoming crisp, punctuated by the sweet lingering smell of burnt iron bark expelled by the occasional brick-chimney of grandiose farmsteads and claptrap hovels alike. This, was turning out to be one of those ‘hearty soup days’ and I was attempting to soak up every last tasty drop – If it wasn’t for the inconsiderate pompous suburbanite occupying the entire width of the road in his 4-wheel behemoth.

Suddenly my ears hurt, my vision became blurry and my previously relaxed torso tensed in anticipation. What was this? My bike was steady, the ‘cager’ still occupied my forward view?.. A flying-Blatty, travelling at unprecedented velocity, mere millimetres from my right-hand boot hastily answered my query.  His move would have been supreme in grace, but for his bike, which was no-doubt straining at the excessively open throttle. He did however, manage to triumph over our nemesis, who now split us on the road – a seeming eternity passed before I felt it appropriate to pass on the treacherous surface and join the gang once more.

Many narrow wooden-sleeper’d bridges on the verge of rotting, tumbling down or both, hinted that this particular road was not high on the priorities of local council or regional motoring authorities, regardless  this was now our road and we pressed on. One town we happened upon (by the name of Yarramalong), which consisted in it’s entirety of a church, a petrol bowser and a pub/mealhouse (all in one establishment), was judiciously occupied by a small crowd of friendly adventurers and their mechanical steeds of all shapes and sizes, a grin, tip of the head and a ‘thumbs up’ was all that was required to become a member of their exclusive club as we passed.

'Our Road' along the valley floor.

The sun had been hidden behind the adjacent wooded-hills for some time now, so it was fitting that we shortly came to the end of the road. Well, it did continue for some way ahead, but 2-wheel tracks through long grass and saplings isn’t well suited to the slick-soft tyres of today’s sports-bikes, or vice-versa. I had noted back at the holy pub, a side-road heading north-west and potentially over the now familiar left-side range.  A group meeting was called and following the unanimous decision – we disbanded. Blatty headed home the way we had come with an exuberant display of noise and, well, just noise (and a flash of yellow L-plates) to impress the lingering church-bar patrons.

Fading light flickering through the gumleaves,  the aforementioned side-road beckoned (which my GPS had confirmed would eventually link up with other more substantial tracks to me on to Sydney). “You’re mad to ride at dusk”, any fellow rider would say, for evening-commuting wombats are a serious hazard that can collapse a bike’s front wheel at will, likely sending you off into the bushes with the single swift flick of a trebuchet. I was eager to push-on, there was no turning back (unless this road also turned out to be a dead-end).

will be continued… (Still on day 1. Gosh.)

I used to love those “choose your own adventure” stories as a kid.  So for anyone interested, or wants to participate, here’s the rules.  There’s only two of them:

Rule 1: You get to say one word or phrase in reply, and that word or phrase gets incorporated into the next bit.

Rule 2: If everyone says “penis”, I hate you.

–

Water makes a distinct sound as it passes: a drip, a trickle, a gush, a torrent.  Streams and rivers are born by such passages.  People really aren’t so dissimilar.  We too, find our paths of least resistance.  We too, settle and pool in familiar places.  We too, forge crevasses that define our lives.  It takes powerful influences for us to deviate from those paths, to look for new direction.  And it’s not often that we seek out that change for ourselves.

Dustin turned off the tap.  The hot water system has been playing up for months.  Three minutes was a new record.  Towelling off, the stereo unusually silent, he dressed for the hospital.  The boy’s parents had requested he visit, but he wasn’t sure if he should go.  He wasn’t family.  Hell, he didn’t even know the family.  These people were strangers.  It was an accident, just a spate of random events.  It wasn’t intentional, or even logical.  He’d just reacted.

Dustin played the events out in his mind.  They felt fragmented, like slides scattered across a table.  It wasn’t that he felt puzzled piecing them back together.  They just felt disjointed, like it had happened to someone else.

Daniel, at least that’s what he thought parents had called the boy, had been out riding.  Dustin was a local of the area for a couple of years now.  He had an apartment a few blocks from where it happened.  He’d spotted the boy riding before, though they’d never met, never spoken so much as a word to one-another.  The thoroughfare was often used by kids as the bike lane, so it was a common obstacle for morning joggers.

Daniel must have leashed the dog to his handle bars so that it could run out in front of the bike.  The dog was a Labrador, probably no more than a year or two old.  It seemed young and exuberant, although it was no longer a puppy.  The light coloured coat shone like it was recently washed, and there was an amber glean where the sun caught it.

Riding behind a line of parked cars, Daniel was obscured to oncoming traffic.  It was pretty stupid really, tying the bike to an inquisitive mind.  But he was a kid.  It was innocent.

While the accident itself was over in seconds, Dustin’s recollections of it felt like time played in freeze-frame.

There was a jerk of the handlebars as the dog spied a plastic bag blowing across the road.  A brief pause if as if the canine had weighed the bag’s importance, before a playful whim won out to better training and judgement.  As Daniel’s tire hit the curb it wobbled for a moment.  His instincts made him lean towards the safety of the paved path, but overcompensating, his centre of balance shifted and the bike was dragged out from beneath him.

Daniel was a small kid.  He didn’t have a chance.  The dog took off after the bag with his leg still caught in the frame.  It only managed to get a few feet before the momentum of the bike and its occupant stopped in its tracks.  But that was enough for the dog to be in the middle of the road, while Daniel was left jutting out from the parked cars.  He stopped moving the moment his head met the gutter.

The road itself, being single lane with cars in both directions, had nowhere left for a vehicle to swerve.  Flight or fight.  That’s what they say happens.  Dustin hadn’t thought much about it at the time though.  There were only moments left to react, and a seemingly impossible distance between them.

Dustin couldn’t explain why he threw himself those last few yards.  He just did.  Already worn from exercise, he could feel the strain in his calves and ligaments, and the familiar burn of over-stretching.  In hindsight, he guessed it was around that time that the adrenaline kicked in.  Pain turned to invigoration. His heart pounded in his ears as his steps became less laboured and more propelling.

Five metres between him and the boy.  While there should have been ample time, the car didn’t even seem to be slowing.  Dustin absently wondered whether the driver was paying attention to the road.  They were probably drinking coffee.  He remembered thinking he could use a cup himself.  Four.  In the corner of his eye, Dustin could see the plastic bag had stopped moving.  The dog must have caught up with it.  Good for him.  Three.  Dustin knew he was out of time.  He heard the screech of brakes and he dove forward.  Two.  Dustin’s right hand caught Daniel’s jacket at the shoulder and he yanked hard.  Although unconscious, the boy grunted as he moved.  One.  Using his momentum as his chest hit the bitumen; Dustin’s legs about-faced as his body swivelled across the loose gravel.  Using his size as a shield, he propped the boy’s body against his chest. Impact.  All Dustin could remember after the sound of bike-meeting-fender was a yelp, and the searing pain as if his shoulders had been wrenched from their sockets.

As he fastened the last button on his shirt, Dustin couldn’t help but notice the reflection staring back at him was unfamiliar.  He looked taller somehow.

I was greeted by a clear sky on Saturday morning. A notably crisp (but dry) chill originated from the south-west – not very common on the coast, which immediately brought back memories of camping on ridges and mountains in NZ and closer to home  alpine regions in Vic and NSW.

Having recently purchased a set of  the best all-weather-touring motorcycling boots money can buy and proud owner of a sense of adventure, I decided it was a fine day to explore some new roads.

I had promised my youngest cousin (reluctant owner of a Kawasaki Ninja 250) , who will actually complete his restrictions 6 months before me despite being more than 5 years my junior, to take him on a ride along some of the roads I’ve often ridden. Apparently morning-of-a-ride notice isn’t early enough for someone who is ’seen missing’ from  a party the night before, but his older brother (still much my junior) was keen, ready, eager and raring to go!

similar in looks (but not as shiny)

The available party (lets call him Blatty for sake of anonymity) is the recent  owner of an ex-race used Honda CBR250RR crotch destroying, ear banging, 19krpm redlining rocket – full of rattles, cracks and loose bolts. With 80+ thousand too many abusive k’s on the clock it deserves to be ridden straight to the tip, off a cliff, or not ridden at all but placed on display in a museum with a large drip-tray underneath. Needless to say, this particular example came complete with big attention grabbing L-plates.

While passing the time waiting for the arrival of my ‘possee’, preparations were made for the journey including a rinse and smell test of my camelbak, fitment of jacket liner, spray and wipe of clear visor/sunglasses, then donning of kevlar-lined-jeans, touring boots, winter-hoodie and leather armoured jacket. No sooner had my bag been elastically strapped to my CB400 Super Four Revo ‘08 pillion seat, than I could hear the startling cacophony of a rattling, redlining sportspiped Blatty. Sure enough, while looking for the visitor parking he had frightened a dog and my poor old neighbour who was attached to the dog by leash.

Eager to cover as much distance as possible before dusk (by now it was near 2pm) we filled our bikes and other supplies at the nearest friendly service centre, then began the journey south along the eastern side of Lake Macquarie. Much of the trip (so far) was uneventful for the most part, spotted with staccato-conversation at traffic lights, the odd weave through traffic, and the obligatory motorcycle stop at Catherine Hill Bay to absorb some fresh sea air.

My biggest concern was that the possee wasn’t going to be keen to cover as many k’s as was intended (Sydney was the final stop for me, but sundown was the limiting factor for Blatty as his light wasn’t reliable and when it managed to remain lit, the beam wasn’t straight). Rather than end up dissapointed due to excessive time spent in traffic rather than new & exciting roads, we veered off our planned route and once across the freeway, headed straight into ‘the country’.

After a few weeks of contemplation with nothing to do, I’ve come to the realisation that I’m addicted to acceleration and performance.

So I’m now tempted to go spend a bit of money and upgrade my people mover. And before the motley crew pipes in, I’ve never really been that interested in bikes.  Two wheels, no carriage, all that bitumen. Just no.

In fact, if you were ever a Warner Brother’s fan as a kid, well.. I was the guy who empathised with the Coyote.  He always had a plan - he just never had the right tools.  So no, bikes seem about as safe to me as lighting the fuse of an ACME rocket strapped to your gonads.  And I happen to like my gonads. They’re all spongy.

And so, set upon my task of… actually, this brings me to an interesting point. A point I kind of brought up in conversation in guild the other day.

Why in the hell do we still measure things in horse-power? Or candle-light intensity for that matter? Ya know? Didn’t we invent a metric system at some point back in the late 1700’s? I was under the impression that became fashionable.

So anyway, the stock Z comes with about two-hundred invisible thoroughbreds including stables and housing, which they bolt to the front of your car.  You still have to foot the food bill however, and let me tell you, those little fuckers are hungry. They’re all stirruped to the back axle in such a way that you leap into forward motion whenever you crack your metallic whip.

Well, after some hunting around I found a place in Sydney that would not only give me more horses; but they’d make the ones I already had run almost twice as fast!

Apparently they pry their mouths open, elongate their necks a little, tear out their wind wipe and feed it back down their oesophagus, and shove this massive funnel up their arse to improve the digestive process.  They say it’s ok because it’s more efficient.  Heads up to the RSPCA on that one.

But after talking to this dude on the phone, I felt a bit like Scooby after hearing Velma explain how the Gardener had master-minded his grand plan.  Which is to say, I say there with a stupid grin on my face, nodding my head up and down with my tongue lulling out my mouth, while long spindles of drool kind of dribbled down my front.

My idea at this point is if I bother to pay for all this, I’d like to take it up as a new hobby:  go out to some track days and have a bit of fun.

So my question is:

Has anyone ever done this kind of stuff before?

If so, I’d love to hear some worldly advice.  Tips, tricks, anything would be appreciated.

How well do you know yourself?

Do you think of yourself who, in a situation of crisis, would come to the rescue of a stranger being mugged? Would you be that person who dives into the flaming building to rescue the crying child as flames lick its cradle? It’s hard to say and I would argue impossible to know. That is, until you’re actually in that position – in that moment.

I guess it’s actually akin to the school-yard ponderings children put upon each other in an attempt to have them admit something undesirable.  Questions such as ‘would you suck your fathers dick to save his life?’. Probably not the most tasteful (pun intended) of examples.

I recall when I was first cutting my teeth on the employment scene, a fellow and far more senior employee said to me:

“Sean, this company is like a tree full of monkeys. At the top are your managers, your supervisors. They look down the tree and they see nothing but happy smiles of the monkeys beneath them. The monkeys on the bottom of the tree however, well….they look up and see nothing but arseholes.”

It’s an amusing anology for the mentality of employees and their respective positions. We all, apart from the very select few, start at the bottom of this proverbial monkey tree and we all experience what its like to work for arseholes. Those who know me are probably aware I recently proclaimed with glee about my promotion to a ’shift manager’. The job has all the perks such as increased pay, more hours and more responsiblity; however it also came at a price.

Those collegues who I previously worked with; who I considered friends and would chat with all during my shifts about lifes oddities. Well..the whole office dynamic has changed. To then, I am now one of the arseholes. Nothing has occurred that would change the status quo, other than that simple promotion.

I find my newest challenge to be one of diplomacy.  Can I be one of the few who seem to have the god-given ability to quell the uprising while satisfying the demands of the bourgeoisie? I’ve certainly known a few of these individuals and I find myself constantly asking ‘what would Jesus do?’.

And with that thought I leave you to wonder for yourself; if you were in my position would you be trying extra hard to keep your arsehole clean? Or would you be finding the nearest curry and kebab stands while stocking up on the most effective laxative your local chemist recommends?

Phonic out.

Just my pondering for the night.

Myself, as very much a technical person, practical solutions to the core. With current filtering technologies, any automated filter is pretty much a shotgun with its accuracy. When using a shotgun you get a spread, sometimes if that target you’re aiming at is close to something else you don’t want to hit – there’s a good risk you might hit that unwanted target anyway.

Therein lies the reason how filtering can used as a breach into freedom of expression, as well as a poor method of attacking ‘unwanted’ content.

Intentional or not, certain people and groups play politics – which may eventually be abused to edge the filtering system into the realm of suppression of information. If not, it’ll at least make the thought of mistakenly blocked content more palatable, making us more accepting as the filtering eventually works its way deeper and deeper into the content of the internet.

Technically as the filter list gets larger and more dynamic. The requirements for the filtering system become larger – most likely not just linearly, potentially exponentially. As do the costs, and for the ISPs that have to provide the system, passing those costs back onto us – the customers – quite a substantial increase in internet costs. Inherently as network response times increase, hardware costs will increase to rectify the situation.

The government won’t be able to help as each ISP is unique in its own way, and custom solutions cost more. I’m sure lesser ISPs will begin to fail providing filtering and not provide any internet at all to their paying customers – who by now will have already begun to shoulder quite a hefty burden of the filtering.

In these times of economic uncertainty and desperation – adding extra baseline costs to companies and businesses who pass costs onto consumers can’t be a good thing. Increased baselines costs can’t be a good thing for international trade, why bother with a country’s industry that is so hampered by risks and additional costs lumped on by an Internet filter intended to protect the country’s children.

Children who by this time on their slowed down, unreasonably more expensive Internet because the NBN also did not properly address future communications requirements, have already learned to bypass the filtering system that was deemed necessary to protect them while they send their self-shot nude photos to some lacking in life adult across the world via IM/Social networking from their government funded laptop.

All the while their parents are in the next room enjoying their newly acquired Digital HD TV bought with child support bonuses just in time for analogue tv transmission to be turned off.

While at this moment the Government has only pledged about $15M for the bushfire recovery funds, although government is happy to spend $128M on this internet filtering shenanigans.

Every night I confuse myself with how mandatory ISP level filtering could actually be considered at any level as being beneficial for our country’s future.

When I was young, maybe three, I remember getting stung by a bee.

We had this little red swing set in the back yard, which in my mind’s eye may as well have been built by giants.  I used to use the rod that propped up the “A” frame as a set of monkey bars, and while I remember it being huge, it couldn’t have been more than a couple of feet off the ground.  And so, as kids often do, I remember jumping up and grabbing hold without looking.

I don’t remember the pain of the stinger, but I do remember being scared.  I remember running inside, looking for the kind of comfort that only a mother can give.  The open arms, the big hug and even bigger smile, and the kind, soft whispers of reassurance as she whisked me up onto a chair and sprouted tweezers.  I can’t remember if I was angry at first, but maybe I was.  It was my swing set after all, and the bee had no right to be there.  What I remember most, though, is that she told me the bee would die.

I remember running outside to have a look at it.  I also remember it being squished against the frame where my hand had been.  It’s also one of the few times I ever remember crying.

It’s funny, you know?  As a kid, everything’s big and new; and there’s a great sense of wonder about the world.  There’s an air of innocence about it.  Lessons like mortality and the consequences of your actions aren’t learned cheap.  And those lessons are revisited, and reinforced, as the years tick by.  I can’t speak for anyone else, but that tends to solidify your understand of a thing.  And no, this isn’t a discussion about death, or mortality.  It’s just an observation about perception.

The problem with trial and error, cause and reaction, and certainty of proof is that you hug to it as you get older.  It’s not that the world has become any less innocent, or any less wondrous; it’s that my perception of it has changed.  And therein lies the danger, I think.  The danger isn’t in understanding something; no.  It’s that the next time around, you expect the same result.  The more proof you see of theory driven from practise, the more inclined you are to shrug off to the possibility of change.   And the less inclined you are to question it.

It’s a double-edge blade, no doubt; but perception, I think, is quintessential to the nature of possibility.  And perhaps, then, its worth tackling the challenges of tomorrow with my eyes open.