Waru, why you?

It’s almost 100% predation.

Waru, why you? …because…

Australia’s own, the flat-back turtle, is under threat of annihilation.

They have survived for millions of years. Their eggs are a touch bigger than golf balls. Their young are the largest hatchlings of any turtle. They carry shields that grant no defense against the barrage of predators they’re facing in the first few minutes of life. Feral pigs on the mainland ensure they don’t ever get to see the ocean.

 Crab Island is an idyllic place. Sunset comes and life begins. In the morning the place looks as if the Australian Tractor Race Championship had been held on its beaches, with hundreds of tracks churned up. But the tracks are not alongside the water’s edge, they are across, towards and from the ocean.

It’s breeding time for the flat-back turtles and Crab Island is the largest nesting site in the world for them. They first arrive late afternoon, bobbing their heads out of the water, eyeing up a suitable patch. They then drag their heavy bodies out of the ocean, head up high on the beach and start digging. The front flippers dig a ‘body pit’, before the rear flippers dig an egg chamber, about 0.5m deep. Her flippers are much like hands, having similar control to scoop up a handful of sand and bring it to the surface.

While one flipper reaches deep, the other flicks the previous load away. And so she builds her nest with efficient and coordinated movements, without wasting any time. She deposits about 50 eggs (other species lay at least 100) and covers the nest. The turtle is in a trance-like state when laying her eggs. Once done, she covers her eggs and heads back to the ocean.

The flat-back sea turtle is endangered with extinction. They are unique amongst the world’s 7 sea turtle species: They are known as ‘Australia’s Sea Turtles,’ because they nest only on the nation’s far northern beaches – the most restricted distribution of any turtle. They lay fewer, but larger eggs. They have a skin like shell with upturned edges. And they lack an oceanic phase, staying close to the coast as youngsters, unlike other sea turtle hatch-lings that can travel across large oceans. They are rare and little studied. Currently on the island are sea turtle researchers Mr Brett Leis, Dr Ian Bell and Dr Barry Krueger. Their aim is to collect nesting biology data, describe nesting patterns, and examine 10 of the turtles each night to find out if they are first time breeders by way of laparoscopy.

Inside the turtle, Dr Ian Bell is looking for ovarian scars, the telltale signs left from previously delivered eggs. The future eggs will be laid in another season (they show as white / yellow round dots). Following the examination the cut is stitched shut.

Mr Leis has been researching the Crab Island flat-back turtle rookery for several years and currently manages the Cape York Sea Turtle Project (working for Cape York Sustainable Futures). Both Dr Ian Bell and Dr Barry Krueger are world renowned sea turtle experts. Dr Bell works as a Senior Conservation Officer for Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service specializing in sea turtles, whilst Dr Krueger is a sea turtle biologist who has worked all over the world, more recently on flat-back turtles in the Pilbara region of WA and previously managed the Barbados hawksbill turtle project in the Caribbean for many years.

It is about midnight on Crab Island and life is in full swing, and so is death. While the female flat-backs deposit their eggs, hatchlings emerge by the hundreds, perhaps thousands, all heading to the water. The shell is soft but firm. The hatchlings will be lucky to survive the first few minutes. Laying in wait are the Ghost Crabs that carry them off. If they don’t get them then the Rufus Night Herrons will, or the Beach Stone Curlews, the Jabirus and Pelicans. If any of them should miss some, then large numbers of crocs scoop them up with their heads turned sideways. “Only one in a 1000 will survive into adulthood,” says Mr Leis.

The spotlight reveals the eyes of most crocs, as they feast on the hatchlings on the sand. As soon as the quad bike gets nearer, they run to the water, some more reluctant than others. Whilst driving along the beach, Mr Leis marks the GPS positions of turtles, for later analysis.

Mr Leis estimates that about 500 flat-back turtles came to nest this night. The sex of newborn hatchlings is determined by the temperature of the sand. Cooler sand will produce male offspring. The mainland may be warmer, producing female offspring. Mr Leis, “The mainland nesting population is critical for this fact, however feral pigs are wiping out most nests and this has the potential to cause regional extinction of turtles in the area, including Crab Island, because the population relies on these females.”

The turtle’s length is recorded and she is tagged before being released.

Crab Island is lucky not to have the introduced wild pigs, which devastate the breeding grounds on the mainland.

In 50 years time the newborn will return here, to lay their eggs in the sand, continuing a cycle that started millions of years ago. The researchers have been tracking turtles by satellite, which has shown that flat-back turtles can migrate as far away as 3000km to nest here. “We are in day four now,” says Dr Ian Bell, when asked how many first-time breeders were found. “It seems to fluctuate each day. We had 17 last night, and fifteen were experienced breeders with two new recruits to the population. It’s a very small sample size, but we need to finish off the study to see what the whole 50 look like.”

This night the researchers have found ‘fibropapilloma’ on 2 of the turtles. The disease is a herpes virus afflicting some of the turtles, with ‘cauliflower’ like tumors externally, but can have internal growth as well. The disease was found in Green Turtles as early as 1980s. It now affects all sea turtle species, but has been rarely seen on flat-back turtles. “Fibropapilloma could be a result of stress from pollution or poor water quality,” says Mr Leis.

“Down in Moreton Bay (near Brisbane), a lot of green turtles have fibropapilloma that may be a result of living close to an urban area. Turtles travel far. These flatbacks could have been coming from areas such as Indonesia or New Guinea. It would be interesting to find out where they are picking it up from.”

Some of the flat-backs on Crab Island had part of their flippers and shell bitten off. ”You see a lot of turtles have missing flippers and parts of shell; sharks tend to take a nice clean bite, whilst crocodile bites tend to be a bit more crunched,” explains Mr Leis.
Turtles can cut off their blood supply when losing a flipper. They do have a nervous system and are able to feel pain. “You see some pulling themselves out of the water with only one flipper, so they’re resilient tough girls,” says Mr Leis. “You have to admire their determination and effort to lay their eggs and the foundation for the next generation. I just wish us, as humans, we’re just as determined to ensure that sea turtles do not become extinct. But they face an uphill battle.” Crab Island is the largest nesting rookery for flat-back turtles in the world. Mr Brett Leis has been studying the rookery for 3 years and has been collecting valuable information to aid in the conservation of one of the world’s rarest and least studied species of sea turtle.

The research team has a lot on its plate: Operating from two camps, south of Jardine on the mainland and Crab Island, conducting simultaneous surveys to allow comparative analysis. Rangers in training: The team works closely with the Apudthama Land and Sea Rangers to provide training and to increase understanding in monitoring and research methods. Together with the Apudthama Land Trust and NPARC, they have been working to monitor turtles and protect turtle nests from feral pigs on the mainland beaches, particularly the beaches south of the Jardine River.

 “The big focus for the Jardine beaches and Seven Rivers area is the fact that the mainland populations are really being impacted by feral pigs. It’s almost 100% predation, so every egg that’s laid on the mainland is dug up by feral pigs,” says Mr Leis. “It is the same story along much of the Cape York coast. Feral pigs are eating just about every egg laid by turtles on the mainland. This is a major issue. We have recorded some of the highest rates of predation of turtle nests in the NPA, which is a real concern, because of the significance of the turtle nesting population. Feral pigs are an introduced pest. They do not belong here. They wreak havoc across the landscape, destroying wetlands, competing and predating on native wildlife. We simply need to control pigs, especially in those priority areas in the NPA. The NPA region is pretty special in that it contains some of the world’s most important sea turtle populations, but the fact is there are still a lot of pigs and we need to control those pigs. Whether through aerial culls, through baiting, through trapping, we need to make sure that the pig numbers are down, especially during the turtle nesting season, just to give those eggs a chance to incubate and hatch, and for the hatchlings to make it to the water. At the current rates of predation there will be no more turtles nesting on the west coast in 20 years time. Those eggs won’t incubate, those hatchlings won’t grow old, they won’t be returning. It’s pretty critical.”

An email received with the heading ’World shame coast in Costa Rica’ shows whole communities plundering eggs from nests whilst the turtles are still on the beach. They are carried off by the bags full to be sold. Images cannot be shown for copyright reasons. Mr Leis identified them as olive ridley turtles, “They nest in a phenomenon called ‘Arribada’, in which all the turtles emerge over 1 or 2 nights in the season to nest. Unfortunately, it means they are easily exploited. Ironically, this is the same thing happening in the NPA, however it is feral pigs destroying every nest day after day. This sort of thing is happening all over the world, which saddens me. The once large nesting populations of olive ridleys that occurred in Peninsula Malaysia and Thailand are a classic example of over exploitation of sea turtle stocks. Long term, over-harvest of their eggs saw the population collapse and lead to their eventual decimation. They went from hundreds of thousands of nesting turtles a year to zero… in a matter of decades. Same story, if there are no eggs to hatch, then there are no turtles to come back in the future. This is why both, indiscriminate egg collecting and hunting of adults in the Torres Strait and NPA will have dire consequences: no adult females laying and no hatchlings returning as adults = no more turtles!”

Special thanks for help with this article to Mr Brett Leis.

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The NPA in 2011

The NPA stands for Northern Peninsula Area, located in the remote top end of Cape York, Far North Queensland, Australia.

The People: In 2011 the people living in the NPA are the Aboriginal tribes of Wuthathi (manta ray), Yadhaykenu (goanna, stingray, croc), Gudang (turtle with frog, goanna), Angkamuthi (Seven Rivers, fresh-water long-neck turtle), Atambaya (Utaga, dingo) peoples, the Kaurareg people (Muralag), Torres Strait Islanders: from the eight clans from Saibai: Saibai Kadal, Aith Kadal (Kadal = crocodile), Dheoybau (yam), Suim (a type of swamp bird), Baidham (shark), Umi (dog), Samu (emu come cassowary), Thabu (snake), their totem groups  Keoybuiyai (or Buwai, big totem group) and Migina (small totem group);  from Marpuna the children of: the Mparkwithi, Taepithiggi, Thaynhakwith, Warrangku, Yupungathi peoples and traditional owners from that area, the Tjungundji people;  the people who carry in their ancestry the Kambarra (crocodile), the Kabi-Kabi (S.E. Qld), Suibaidam clan, Kaanju, Umpila, Lama Lama, Aya Pathu. Wunta (wind), Yintjingga (sea eagle), Koong’Kai (Kukuyau, north clan and Yeepai, south clan on east coast, Lockhart), Uwinthyn (fresh water turtle), bower bird, stingray, Utingu (Simpson Bay); the many tribes, clans and totem groups from the mainland and islands, from Mer (Murray), Kubin (Moa), Mabuiag, Iama (Yam), Yorke (Masig), Ugar (Stephens), Erub (Darnley), Poruma (Coconut), Narupai (Horn), Dauan (Cornwallis), Boigu and the islands east to west, north to south in the Torres Strait, from Palm Island, Coen, Lockhart, Port Stuart, Normanton, Cairns, from across the state, across the country and far beyond (Papua New Guinea, Rotuma, Fiji and other Melanesian and Polynesian islands, such as Samoa, New Zealand, from Borneo, Malaysia, S.E. Asia to Europe).

This listing is not complete as most carry within a list several times this length. No new villages or townships have been built since, but each community has available lots for future growth or is already in progress of expanding.

The place names: Cowal Creek (small river) was once the name of a place and a creek. It become Injinoo (derived from ‘Ing hinu’ (a place to sit), but both names are still understood today.

The area of Ichirru (in Ikya) is now better known as Bamaga.

Alau, Umagico (the ‘Rainbow Serpent’ in one of the Lockhart languages) is still known by both names locally. Alau being derived from Lalau, a Gudang language.

Mandignou (Mandingu), once Charcoal Burner in Hidden Valley, is New Mapoon, retaining its original name in ‘Mandignou Apudthama Apang’ (Gudang language, New Mapoon Family Place), the new All Abilities Playground.

Red Island Point is Seisia with Red Island located across from Seisia Jetty, the area was known as Ithunji (in Ikya language).

Each of the original tribal groups from the areas may have had different names for these places.

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images with comments

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Whenna

This is Maluka, Grade 3, visiting her sister Whenna at Bamaga Hospital, Far North Queensland. Maluka is such a delightful girl, asking questions non stop. I was talking to one of the wards men when Maluka asked him straight out, “Why aren‘t you doing your work? Why are you talking to this man, when you should be doing your work in the ward?”

Inside the ward I get to meet her 5-year-old sister Whenna, who had both parents as visitors.

Just as charming as her older sister, Whenna checks out Dr Shahla Rafiei.

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Immortal infancy

Immortal infancy

A journey through the woven web of criss crossing info in its infancy, can be amusing, confronting and oh, so ridiculous to be of little informative use. In moments of absolute boredom (when one not even feels like rehearsing tomorrow), or some inner sense of self analysis, double check, a la ‘who am I’ and one may try to google oneself, in order to find, just in case one forgot who one is. If my father were still alive, he’d ask me, ‘How does one google oneself? …in a mirror?’ He was spared a lot; he died before the spider started weaving. The new spiders don’t weave anymore, spiders ‘spider’ with woof and weft to tie it all. Adhesive threads bond every word I said in writing to its web. We are the weavers.

So what did I discover? It’s news to me, but so I’m told: I’m dead. I died some time ago, over two years actually, on the other side of the earth. I also have a grave stone to prove it, across another ocean. It’s a very nice grave stone, my admiration to the sculptor. I also have a boyfriend and I categorically state hereby, that no male in my world or any other world I do consider ‘boyfriend’.

Even in 97 years from now, my deadness age is 2, there, on the thread it’s frozen. When this now, far behind, has aged beyond my comprehension, my comprehension’s left, as death paid me a visit in due course, perhaps it knows me not, forgets, vain optimism peaks, just for a fraction, then it’s dead, illusion without breath. In time, when else, deadness will start another count. Yet woven in the webbed words, time slice of someone I don’t know, ensures my aging deadness toddles is timeless toddlers’ age, forever there suspended.

Deed poll could grant divorce of name, that upon birth I carried, then deadness age of 2 clearly not me or I. Better not ponder this too long, ‘cause who I was would never die, yet could not live forever either. Who’d I become, birthed not from life, pond-less the ponder hints with grin, ‘no birthdays either.’ Stop teasing, grey hair will find the colour they once were, each night. Wrinkles not know how to undo. Have none when all the mirrors die, except one, when arm shapes to a bow.

There is a consolation, as any death begins with infancy, no matter how old deadness grows, infancy is forever, as long as one not speaks after one’s death does deed.

How did my mother know that long ago? As child I heard her say, ‘When you are dead, they need to shut your mouth.’  I must not forget to let them know.

© Heinz Ross, Gold Coast, Australia

7,15 Jan 2009

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Sell-All Corp

Sell-All Corp

9:02am, a Tuesday, Sell-All Corp announced their latest contribution to the world, with promise such to turn the gloom of desperate times, to hope of riches in abundance, to each who’s sitting at the board of Corp, as well as each investor and participating store.

Trained reps out in the field canvas their new domain. Ice-cream vendor, one of the first to get the offer, ‘Sir, I do not even need explain. Watch this.’

‘See the lady over there, the one that has just crossed the road. She’s gone, right, most very likely not buy ice-cream from your store, right?’

‘Right’

Press, press, click, click, the thingy does it’s thing. ‘Now watch her change her mind. She’ll order strawberry sundae and then tops it with dessert. You’ll see.’

A moment’s hesitation all it took and all happened, just as rep said it would. The butcher next door witness to what transpired, undelayed asks rep, ‘Could you get her to walk through my door too?’

Press, press, click, click, she did.

The banker too, next door to butcher’s place, ‘Could you…?’

Rep did the clicking bit; she did the doing, as expected.

Five minutes passed, perhaps just six, the ice cream vendor, banker, butcher and the rep, sat on a bench to ponder. The butcher said, ’She bought the best cuts that I had, my boy to carry in two bags, then she came back, bought more, whatever for?’

The banker too, did look surprised, ‘She’s 83, I loaned her $86 plus nine, and 720000 bucks, all cash, and all secured, the boy helped carry that as well.’

Ice cream vendor said his piece, ‘All stock of strawberries gone, how she could eat it all? She did!’ Rep grins to do his spiel, ‘Just think, each one that walks past all your doors, compelled to come and buy whatever is on offer, even the most unlike contender, spending in excess of all your dreams, as you have seen, where would you be tomorrow?’

‘Oh my,’ said one, all others dittoed.

Butcher suspicious, ‘May just it be, that she’s an actress that you paid, performing buying so you can impress, so that we want whatever you are selling?’

Press, press, click, click, that’s all he did, the rep.

Not one of all the passers bye suppressed their urge to buy, four minutes later all the shops were out of stock, the bank as well.

‘I rest my case,’ said rep, ‘you are the judge.’

Banker confused in wonderment, ‘Remember last week, Monday? Each one that walked along had cell phones ring to tell them of our specials, the ice cream place, the butcher and my bank, all did a roaring trade, that day. We all paid fee of dollars high to rep that promised us the sky, but Tuesday there was trouble. No one could move an inch without their cell phones ringing. Each phone tracked GPS what not, and near our doors no one forgot to make their phones ring right on queue. No sound of bird, no cars or trucks, no plane or anything could hear, except the ringing of the mobile phones, all day long and everywhere. The ones that sold the deal are sitting pretty. Pity though, Tuesday no cell phone worked. All had enough, all switched them off. One day we made good money, nothing since, but fee we paid for 12 months in advance.

Rep said, ‘Here is the deal, 5% of net you make I get, that’s it. 5% of nothing I will get if you don’t trade.’

Butcher said, ‘Done deal, I’m in.’

Banker asks, ‘How does it work?’

Rep responds, ‘It’s like a voice inside the ear that every passer bye will hear when somewhere near your door, if you agree.’

Banker, ‘Agree, I do. 95% of something is better than all of nothing.’

‘What about you?’ rep asks, ice cream vendor answers ‘nay’ rep says ‘OK.’

Next morning, at the break of day, ice cream vendor is busy doing, screwing, fiddling, twiddling, wiring, gluing, ‘til all is done that need the doing.

8:29am, all three are watching, each foot that’s left behind the one, catch up to overtake the other foot, until near bank’s door slows. The banker grins, ‘It’s working.’ From across the road one nears the banker’s door, then moves towards the butcher’s place. Butcher is pleased.

Young kid, riding a bike, its tire rolls across the mat, which ice cream vendor prior had placed across the patch that fronts his door.

In softest of angelic whispers, the speakers that he’d placed above his door, announce in voice enthralling all, ever so slow, but slower, just a smidgen, ‘I dream, I Dream, Ice Dream, Ice Cream, Icy, I see, I see Icy, Dreamy Ice Cream, all for me.’ A message that contained enough ‘mesmerisability’ to tease all from where they had been, each gravitates towards the door that holds the promise of a dream, despite each hearing things none could explain.

Anger filled the banker, no one came, none through his door, the butcher too turns blue, for whom he’d chopped the chops, he did not know.

Next day, mats hid the footpath, each one voiced a dream of ‘it’, some triggered by compression, non-mat space laced with laser traps, or other life sensing devices. Any living, dead or alive, would inescapably attract the registering of the homing gadgets to unleash what was once just a mere simple call, to bring to one’s attention. The earmuff traders all too pleased.

Little time it took and all went out of hand. The needers spent to buy the names of sports arenas, schools and places; other needers sold the rights to sell the rights they found were left. The city too saw opportunity to get in on the act. The Queens Street and the King’s Place bear the names of your brand for two months, if you willingly part with coins of valued tender. Map makers, street directory designers, all were booming. The river too, each week carried another name, until language and everything on earth stained straining with a nonsense that no sense had ever sensed or seen.

Look at the tomato sunset, we must catch-up sometime (I know the spelling’s wrong. No pay, no way, why should I advertise). Team sports not for the fainthearted, my sympathies for callers of events. The players, commentators, spectators and rules of the game, all needed changing with the times.

League, Aussie Rules, Netball and more, below example is for Soccer:

Once (yesterday), it may have sounded through the radio like this:

“Oh what a beautiful path from Tompkins, across to Meyer, dribbles, he boots it hard. GOAL!!!! GOAL!!!! How sweet it is, the Tigers in the lead.”

Now, even a translator is of little help:

”Floor polish at 3% off this week only Tompkins, kicks the Sunshine Alliance Ball for when you get old you’ll need insurance, across to chocolate is another name for heaven Meyer, dribbles, he boots the dribble trouble free boots size 8.32 buy 2 get 3, not ever wet even in rain hard. It’s a ‘coffin when you need it’ GOAL! Red, black or blue, it’s up to you GOAL!” How sweet, three times the sweetness of the finest cane, Sweet-cane sweetener when all else turns sour it is, the beach resort upon a mountain’s ridge Tigers in the lead.”

“Oh no, what’s this, the referee shakes his with reference wear it proudly hat head. No goal? What? Why? It’s as clear as clear spray can on this orange burst with vitamins day. The rules…? The advertiser’s privilege…?? The what…???

#346.76, section 8, para 43 states: The advertiser shall have the right to display their goods in a manner they deem best. No goal, the ref is right. The ‘coffin when you need it goal’ should have it’s lid down, closed. If it were, no ball could have gone in. The coffin when you need it goal, does not need a goalkeeper, no ball can ever score. It’s in the rules. The beach resort upon a mountain’s ridge Tigers better get up from the mowed by manicured lawns grassed field.”

In short, each shouting each, as many, them, out screams each other to combine as noise, none able to digest the load of promise and exhilaration of suggest the sellers’ impregnated messages contain. A closer look reveals all want the same, money, the generating of which is the prime purpose of any business.

No law in the land suggests that those who have any must part with it, nor that those who have none must mend their pockets to prevent the loosing of any. For a brief period ‘Tomorrow predictors’ came in vogue, a small short-lived isolated boom for the manufacturers. It was a lever glued to an envelope. The inscription read, ’Outlook for tomorrow,’ the pointer indicating the answer, ‘same’, day in, day out the same, ‘same’. A competitor envelope manufacturer brought out own version, ‘same’ replaced by ‘perhaps not’. When a new manufacturer brought out yet another version, replacing ‘same’ or ‘perhaps not’ with ‘hopeful’, in addition added stamps, so that message could easily spread, all hell broke lose.

Stalemate came and stayed. Those with empty pockets could not afford a bit of wall, which became home for all those that had none, with commitments to pay what they had loaned to those that they had borrowed from, plus a bit more. In time, not enough walls could accommodate all those that went there.

Tough decision time for gov.gov, reasoning across the floor, bla, bla, bla, if those that have, wish to retain, and those with none no hope of gain, then zero hour shall be this, each to remain where each one is, in status quo. All deals prior to hour zero zilch. New currency will have name ‘Currency’ and each soul in the land Currency 100 in the hand, infants with clenched fists included; the bucks of old stopped bucking, lame, lost bounce and thus lost their right of legal tender. The exchange rate from the old to new currency: Nothing, zilch, zip, naught, null, nought, nix, all with receipt.

Sad eyed one guy explained, ‘$87trillion I brought in, look, all I got is this receipt’. ‘Why didn’t you let them buck before?’

‘I wish I knew?’

Ten minutes before zero hour, bulldozers lined the street of walls. Nine minutes later, no wall stood left standing of the old. At stroke of midnight, each woke up, as rich or poor as any other. The day when all began anew, when each had Currency 100 in their hand. Needless to say, some were screaming, many dreaming the coming of the day.

© Heinz Ross, Gold Coast, Australia

28/29 Jan 2009

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Time for a speeding ticket

Time for a speeding ticket

I wrote a number of articles on the subject ‘time’, published elsewhere. Here is another angle.

Sometimes some things take some time, time’s not yet cloned, time is of the essence, a concept, Einstein’s been there, done it.  Time ran out, all is collecting in a puddle down the hill. Time’s up, to rise as vapour shaping clouds, quick, snap a picture, timelessness timely caught. Time waits for no man, women are so lucky, oh ‘…no men’, oops, time for a pickle. Desperate times, hopeless times, times for peace, for love, for fixing holes in roofs, double time, overtime, over time and under, who will have the time?
‘What’s this …a copper with a gun?!?’

‘Don’t aim at me, time-freeze, now; get this mobile to a halt. Time can’t, needs space.’

“Sir, what is the speed limit here?” (My chest rises in pride. A knight, a cop needs my advice. From where he’s standing the sign shows no inscription.)

“Same speed as my angel flies, but we can change it, if you like.”

“Officer, I can explain, time ran away, I was just chasing it, speed ticket ‘it’ should get. You snapped the radar trigger. You saw it happening. It overtook me, dragged the car behind it, adherence to its vortex, a physical phenomenon. Let me explain…”

“I have no time for this,” says he.

“Neither have I, good bye.”

“Get back over here, Sir, we’re not yet done, it takes some time.”

“Sir, is there any reason for you speeding?”

“I thought I made myself clear. No, officer, being absent minded comes to mind.”

“Sir, this shows you doing 83 in a 60.”

“83 of what that might be?”

“83 km per hour, Sir.”

“Would I not need an hour to travel 83km? This car is incapable to do 83km in such short a time, as it did take you to laser snap it, nor would those few yards contain a distance of 83km. Perhaps 83 microbe km, if they have such measure.”

“Sir, I will issue you with a speeding violation.”

(Knighthood is not free; each ‘Sir’ will have a price. I had a suspicion this was not just idle conversation)

“Please, let me pay you for the artwork, framed or without, how much?”

“$150, no frame, and 3 points.”

“At least, it is so pretty, worthy of much more.”

Signs in my neighbourhood proclaim, ‘When you are speeding, you’re an idiot.’ I did, therefore I am …a cretin, moron, half-wit, retard, imbecile, simpleton, of subnormal intelligence, with mental impairment and so much more. All these promises and still no membership, the mail takes time, I guess.

Here is the trick, Time. Another time, the same place, same spot, the sign will show 60km/h. Time, one should never take for granted, as it will change to 80km/h. There is a pattern (timed of course). I figured that much out, it would never be 63, nor 79, not even 62.49, based on my observation that not any time once such it had ever been. Ever, never say it, whilst there still is time. Nature drives plants to grow, few yards, that’s all, reveal the sign in unobstructed view. If one is to stand at a certain angle, and I’m yet to position my car in such a way, but have no time for splitting hair.

I got it all wrong. I can rely on my memory to get things mixed up. No wonder my membership had not arrived. The signs do not say that at all, the real signs are, ‘if you drink, then drive, you’re a bloody idiot’ and the TAC (Transport Accident Commission) came up with it and several variations as well. Are they going to pay for the grog? I am unwilling to risk a single brain or liver cell in becoming a drinker, just so I can try to become a bloody idiot. There are not many wits in the TAC (wits with the noun of wit that is). ‘Bloody Idiot’, suggests blood, death. Death is not becoming to the happy drinker (is it to anyone in time?). I guess if time after time one is dealing with the untimely demise of life, one becomes hardened, fed up, seen from the side of the boys in blue, girls too, the staff in white coats wearing gloves, death, the reward for doing time?

It is not really a subject to mention, without feeling an up well of anger. A feeling of massive pain overcomes, of questions that will never find answers, no matter how long the survivors seek.

I broke the law, admit to that, this time doing 23 over the limit, another time it would have been 3, either way, the law broke. It costs $150 to fix it. One would think it makes more sense, if laws were such that would not break as easily. Durability, a trait unknown to law, that is the law, yeah, look at them, all broken, and one of them I did. If I were in the law manufacturing business, and knew that each of them will break, and knew that each broken law needs to be fully refunded (I would assume that’s in the contract), I would become a professional insomniac in 2 seconds flat. There is another way, let us address it later, if there is time.
The odd thing is, that I knew the gun-toting boys were there, when I passed them driving in the other direction, minutes earlier. I thought to myself, must remember to wave on my return.

The place where the sign is placed is such, one approaches from a 100km/h highway. The exit lane is like the approach to landing, clearly marked 80, then 60, I can hear my turbines winding down. I head into a roundabout with due care, exit the roundabout, align the car from two lanes to one, bushes, growths, the sign is right amongst them, like a plant specimen, odd, without growth.

Even after being issued with the ticket, I snapped myself repeating the same thing over again. It is time to dissect, why is this happening? Home is beyond, 5km further. The heart wants to go home, like a child running in joy towards its mother, so too I, want to run towards home.

Pedestrians are never an issue in that area; none are ‘pedesting’ there. It feels like cheating when one breaks the law and none is there to witness. Wit aside, I must find an answer to this. $150 is comparable to time; it takes time to reap, more than I spent in purchasing other boys in blue artwork.

Next time I approach, I give each action my full awareness. Exit lane starts as single, fine, opens up to two lanes. Either is OK to take. The inner has less distance (trig), the inner can trap, the inner offers the shortest line between two points. The inner is closest to the planted centre of the roundabout. Around about there, that weed is newly grown, welcome to the world. The core of the roundabout devours the poison from my car tonight. The inner requires two additional computations, as the outer is crossed twice, care, care, carefully. Observations, right, left, left, out.

When taking the outer lane, it takes a wee bit longer, less calculations; it sometimes feels like putting my life at risk, if some other not heeds the Stop sign. The thought of relying on the other to stop, to avoid minor collision is always more pronounced in the outer lane. The inner lane could also trigger accidents, cars could rub, side by side, I always look, estimate, judge, calculate, that, I know I do. I always indicate, each lane change, so many blue shirts must have forgotten how to do that. The exit tangent offers one choice, from two lanes into one. Coming from the inner, be aware not to cut off the outer, while from the outer, check, who wants to be ahead.
I know, being in front of one also means being behind another, no glory in either position. So I’m considerate, you want to play the leader, go ahead, no …not sure, let’s talk about this. Anyway, having passed all the mental ‘to do’s’, the single lane is the point that frees the brain of all that. And here, this is the moment, the right foot gained weight, this is it, why? What need I do at this point to loose weight in my gas foot?
Which sign would make me aware that here is my trap, which I keep falling in repeatedly? Ponder, home calls. Which sign? ‘She will still be there’ would work for me, ‘She will still be there, take care’ garnished with elaboration. ‘I am, come slowly’, all would do. I guess the cause is coming from the instinct, to run towards, to cut time short, rejoicing calls to come, the though of home pumps adrenalin. It is like the instinct of danger primes the body to escape, though in reverse. Time driving away from home always seems slower than driving towards it, yet both are the same distance.

Honesty could be another solution helping me not fall into the trap. Like the taxation system, introduced some years ago, we trust you doing the right thing, if we catch you, Fine. My tax returns are clean. I am not a speed demon that is not in me. I was once… and admit to that. The new freeway completed, underneath me, the once fastest bike in the world, set out to pasture and then saw what once was. Glorious empty three wide lanes ahead with gently sweeping curve. The bike remembered, the bike spoke, begged, pleaded, ‘Just once, please, just this once, let me run, come on, just you and I, no one will know, let me relive the moments of my glory, just this once…, I’m in your hands, make my life complete.’

Young I was, I listened, mercy spilled, throttle turned, bark bearing hiss. This, breathe, live your moment, roar spitting flames, my shirt shred in its wake. The music rushing passed the helmet, the stallion rising to the call, wail in your ecstasy, as silvery shadow blurs. Hard on the edge of inner curve, curve curves, sweeps into curve opposed, cross all the lanes in blending tangent, mirror mirrors thousands of pictures, all at once. Why bother? None could catch us. Gosh, what a ride, the fire in your loins, the engine purrs in squeals, its high pitched howl, each horse ‘least once to lead, six pistons, all alive, on fire, in flames exhaling breath that splits the air in waving rise as wake. Each drop of sweat ripped to a line, takes time reshaping to a ball, to burst, to bust, explosions trail 5 miles behind, the followers must think it’s raining dew. The wanting more, bow rising, no, oh yes, succumb, the feeling…

No, reason, hear me, you must reason, know we can not rise, wings none we bear, elation this, I hear you plead, calm silver, clouds will wait. Let go, two miles to shudder, let go, scream now, climb, axe, because beyond the rise, there is the town.

Through the shut helmet one could smell the radar trap ahead, the nose knows, time to ease, calm now, my silver treasure, easy now, get me down to something that I can afford. Bike riding brother in blue knew my joy when he rewarded me award, the ticket prize at a bargain price, so glad the laser took its time to meet us… Honesty still knows that I owe much more than he chanced in capture of our rapture, ruptured by him being there. Bliss he sensed, in grinning wrote citation, in thought would have loved to wear my ripped shirt that I wore and lived the living time.

Years mellow one’s perception. As I was saying, honesty may work, honestly. A large sign, a table, un-legged, showing the available choices, like, this much over the speed limit is available now for $50, that much over $75 etc. Discount the low end, add extra premium to the high end (Why ask for more? The rich may have a need). ‘80km per hour on special, today free’ until stock runs out. The supermarkets made an excellent job; one is conditioned to chase the fraction of a dime, getting something free always works, for many. The blooming renascence of financial hardship, aids in driving home the awareness that driving home can be a painful endeavour. Money never had a voice that I could hear when I was younger.

Another sign my brain fully registers are preparatory signs. Usually in black writing, the sign prepares the reader that further up the speed will reduce to what it suggests. So I slow down prior, trying to catch them out, are they telling the truth? Wow, they did, how did they know? State south of Land of Queen has many such as feature. Clear sign, that boys and girls in blue, in Wales that’s south, that’s new, are fed well, not need alms of guests that clog un-clocked its roads, north in their land.

An ‘honesty self catch speeding system’ (that’s a mouth full for any poet) would require some investment, for safety reasons. Infrastructure modifications, to allow one to stop the vehicle, note down the amount, the self-catch details of one’s claim, justification for the award one wishes to be honoured with. One needs time to note the address for mailing to, of self-imposed fine, the name of one to receive the toil in form of cheque. Check for correctness, all this takes time. Unmodified, the infrastructure would grind all traffic to a hold, failing all to realise opportunities on offer, in turn trigger the system’s demise before it had a chance to flourish.

Of course, just for some added twist, in case blue dressed one is a wise guy. Perhaps tries to extract what thinks there is, contained therein above, and aims to earn points by mere volunteered self confession, BEFORE such system is in place, know this: Each word a truth as truth turns lie, as lie lies truthfully, says I from here, my sanctuary, that by default grants privy. The facts that knotted in a knit, then spliced into the crossing yarn, first all had been unravelled, cut and recombined by twisting fibres spun into a yarn. Cohesive thread, how would I know? One better asks a weaver.

One should go with the times, else be forgot, forbid the thought. Time is the theme. Let’s stick to it. It’s time for the manufacturing sector to help us out, to each save time. An automatic ticket dispenser machine comes to mind. How many roads do we have in the country? Some are very long. How many ‘honesty self catch speeding system ticket dispensing machines’ would one need, able to satisfactorily service each municipality, and let’s not be selfish, the country roads ache for the same? There, hordes of people measuring each inch of road, years of work in preparation. Unemployment… tomorrow, no one can remember what that meant.

Business opportunities are everywhere. Just think of the number of extra psychologists, psychiatrist, counsellors, healers, a whole industry of scientists needed to aid the ones, which not heed such suggest such system brings upon to bear, a growing guild to cope with guilt.

One could speed, yes.

One could not fine own break of law, yes.

One could think one gets away free, wrong.

One can think whatever one may wish, but that’s not how it works. The guilt creeps in and starts to nag. You did it, 62km/h in a 60, you low down weasel, measly 2 don’t warrant fine, wrong, wrong, wrong. You can not carry over the 2, from before, when you did 58, I will not buy this. I am your conscience, you owe and you know, and no matter how long you live, this on this day of date at moment such, you did, shall never be forgotten. You owe, how can you sleep at night, 2km over, each dream you have I shall remind. I am conscience; I have memory, how ever far, there is no escape. You owe and this you know, the debt demands its pay, and pay you will if not in money then in ill.

Where do I pay? You know that all too well.

What is my cut? .0001 cent per km above the given limit will do. What for? For the solution that can potentially lift each nation out of recession, a means that frees resources of every law enforcement group in any country. Law enforcement, it is a strange word? Let’s not get sidetracked. Imagine the tremendous lift in the self worth of every citizen such implementation would bring. What a different approach, each speeder would be aware, no need of blue shirts chasing, asking silly questions. I am woman, I am man, I am adult enough to admit I have been wrong. I know I need to make amends. Solutions are so simple, big brother, go away, do something useful. If I catch myself speeding again, I know how fine the fine will be.

Marry ideas to potential economic windfall and success is much more likely. Consider this, a mobile radar trap (a police car/bike who invests 30 minutes here or there with a handheld laser), is likely to return $XYZ per given timeslot, you know the figures better than I. A self trap system operates 24 hours on every and any road in the land, potential of return is in excess of the mean a cop manned trap could return (is there such a thing as ‘womanned’?), due to the fact that a busy cop is not going to stop, the ones they let pass through. Some may not pay their due, just like the ones that nick bananas or a Newspaper sold via honesty system. Pay they will, one way or another. Just on speeding alone, an estimate over the thumb, $ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOP, per annum. Human resources free for reassignment elsewhere, plus hardware and logistics. Why is the treasurer smiling?

Think big, where have you been? The honesty self fine self-judge and condemn system is what comes to mind. Which laws, all laws, which crimes, all crimes, how would it work? Ticket dispensers for all there is, self-serve jails where needed. How many laws would such dispenser able to cater for? That depends. There is a law that covers stealing. Is there a law that covers stealing half a ‘stole’? Instead of stealing a full apple, one steals a few bites and then, when it happens to taste sour, returns it for to ripen. Could not the stealer having bit, sue the grower for the lack of sweetness and offset the fine with gain expected due?

Times grew a legal minefield and brave are those who venture through. No dispenser is able to house the number of buttons needed. Cut the case, economise, approach the new dispenser, did you do something wrong (yes / no / maybe / undecided), was it bad (yes / no / maybe / undecided), was it very bad (out of a scale of 10), please measure the depth of your pocket now (use tape provided), press for a verdict. There you go, that’s all there is to it. The treasury’s coffers burst in a day; crime fights itself, ethics reborn, each one admires every other, proudly shall walk who done his/her time, paid for their crime.

New industries spring up, a best seller this week is the ‘mobile self check answerer.’ One may be in the mood to rob a bank, ask the device and hear the answer: ‘Your account is $7.89; you must have a minimum of $3921.39 to rob the cheapest bank I found, willing to be robbed for shown amount. Travel costs will in addition increase the total to $23873.46 (return). In other words, Sir/Madam/it, “NO, you can not afford to rob any bank on earth at this point in your life. Instead of paying in money I suggest you opt to pay in time. Please try again. Have a nice day.’”

The serious crime addict will of course always be able to play ‘virtual crime’ games, free. Very popular are the digi rob complete with joystick car chase.

Some have more than $7.89 as their sole possession. Tycoon asks the ‘mobile self check answerer’ what crime could I afford: “Your balance is shown truncated to the last 12 digits. You can do anything you want and your resources cover it. You cannot afford crime that costs much time, or you will owe after you go. Please try again. Have a nice day.”

© Heinz Ross, Gold Coast, Australia
20 Jan 2009

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Where is the Fingerprint of…

Where is the fingerprint of …

It is interesting to note, that each (a single) ejaculation condemns 300-500 million sperm to death (give or take a few million). Add to this the ‘Ever Ready’ nature of men, and over a lifetime, the numbers of redundancies are staggering. Not many have 5 children these days. Perhaps that would be all we ever need, yet we sacrifice 6 billion in a week, 312 billion in a year, 14.352 trillion, perhaps more in a lifetime. Multiply that (the potential) by 3 billion men, it is a fair bit of redundancy. Of course different practices yield different results and not all men will ejaculate every time on purpose, after all, it is a ‘little death’. Even if one takes just 10% of the 14.000 trillion sperm, or multiplies that number by another million, and either way one would still be correct, for some.

There is of course a huge variation and many factors have an influence on the number of sperm, perhaps the less said, the better.

What about romance? The hay fever caused by the sexual excitation of our plants, where tons of pollen floats on the wind, the magic of life in fullest abundance, the release on one night in the year of corals giving births saturates the water with magic.

Woman is given say 500 ova, of which approx. 380 fully develop. No woman can bear that many children, not if it costs 9 months plus a lifetime investment.

Apparently 69 children, born by a Russian woman over a 40 year period sets the record, not that there is any sort of contest (she had 16 sets of twins, 7 sets of triplets, 4 sets of quads (between 1725 and 1765)), 67 of the children survived infancy. When one is finished saying ‘Good Morning’ to each, it’s nearly time to go to be. There are several families, each having 17 children from the one mother recorded in recent times.

So it seems the sexdrive (I love how my dictionary is trying to turn this word into ‘seedtime’) is in some sort of overdrive, but perhaps that’s only how it seems. Fact is the sperm-count (concentration) is steadily going down; the quality, in particular of the male sex sperm is degrading, the number of genes in the male ‘Y’ sperm has reduced to 78. In addition, the Y contains repeatedly the code ‘I am male, I am male,’ to be sure it survives the next attacks and still be true and successful in its mission. Specifically in European men the quality of their sperm is viewed with concern, as population numbers there are in decline as well. I guess more ‘important’ gadgets have priority over the attention seeking calls of toddlers, and sperm count has little to do with it. Add to this the number of Y sperm that are zapped by female fluids whilst they thought they were on their merry way, and perhaps each one is needed to even the chances. Perhaps as a species we are never going to make it that long, given the dramatic changes all of us have come to witness in our lifetime. In addition, we have to deal with the projected acceleration of men’s influence on the planet; each day is, as it has always been, so very special.

The SRY gene (Sex-determining Region Y) is the one on the Y chromosome that decides which sex the new life becomes (it develops the testis (generally), yes and no are also correct). There are variations to this (disease and mutations), but if the female has the SRY, it is not going to make a male.

Wonders never cease.
A look at our human family:

XX = girl (generally, the neat box we are all supposed to fit in)
XY = boy (generally, as above, just the other gender)
XX = boy or girl, active gene Sox9 will turn XX into a boy
XY       = boy or girl, active gene Sox9 will turn XY into a girl
XXY     = male but infertile
XXXY   = male but infertile
XXXXY = male
XXXXX = female (mental, growth and motor retardation)
XYY     = boy
XYYY   = boy
XYYYY = boy
XXYY   = boy
XXX     = girl
X        = girl

Then there is the variation in chromosomes (other than the typical 46), such as trisomy 21 (Down syndrome, has extra copy of chromosome 21, when trying to combine with either, egg or sperm. Two additional chromosomes 21 are added, hence ‘tri’. Additional variations in this, if not all of the genes of C21 are duplicated). In a similar way, if it affects the 18th chromosome, it is trisomy 18 (Edwards Syndrome), trisomy 13 (Patau syndrome), trisomy 12, 9, 8, and all the way back to +2.

If we take a look at twins (identical, semi-identical, non-identical) or larger numbers of multiples (3, 4, 5, 6 etc), it really gets interesting.

With the twins, one could have a male (fully functioning and male in appearance), containing within female reproductive organs from his absorbed twin sister. He’s born alone, his twin within. Look carefully in the mirror; do you have two different coloured eyes? If so, one could be the eye of your own twin. It is so nice to finally meet you. How many of us are twins and have no idea? It does happen more than many would believe. Not even our mothers would know, as early pregnancy tests and ultrasounds are recent innovations. Depending on your sensitivities and being in tune with one’s self, perhaps you feel and know (although too often unproven), that inside is something that one can’t exactly put the finger on. Perhaps one gets a feeling of ‘twin-ness’, for lack of a better word, of being the single twin. There is always something, someone missing that one never knew one had, especially if one’s own parents had and have no awareness of it. Whatever applies to the twins, will also apply in many more combinations to larger multiples.

After that, we have the chimera (what a horrible description) made inside the uterus (rare), and micro-chimeras via IVF. If one ever gets a DNA test done and it does not match (even as mother, and you would pretty well remember carrying and birthing them), the kid/s would still be yours if it is/are chimera. With reference to blood grouping alone, there are artificial chimerism, dispermic chimerism (rare in humans), and twin chimerism (an exception in humans). An individual identical twin with a composition of different blood groups in one person and another mix in the other twin are possible.

Conjoined twins (or more) create other unique humans, with the various possibilities as the twins, plus the type of joint, shared or individual organs and a whole list of combinations. Some conjoined twins could internally be the mirror image of the other, the heart on the right side, liver, spleen, stomach and intestines matched accordingly on the other side. This affects about 50% of all Siamese twins joined at the chest, the left twin has the heart left, the other is as a mirror. The heart on the right side is not limited to Siamese twins and could happen anytime. The little organiser cell may have been too busy, and when the heart cell asked where to build itself it was told to go there instead of here. The life is under threat if only the heart is on the right side and everything else not mirrored as well. Occasionally cells don’t separate properly and can result in one twin carrying part of the other, incorporating it into one body, 4 legs, several sexual organs, two heads and many other variations. It is very amazing to see the build-in drive for life creates a unique being, as each of us is unique. Yet all too often that uniqueness is unacceptable (and brave be the one who points the finger). How many twins (partly grown on the other) murdered, not because the carrying twin’s life is under threat, but to make that twin conform to ‘our’ acceptable standards of humanness? Such operations are not called murder, an extra arm or leg is not really human, he/she/it is not going to have any problems in the future, it’s for the best (so they say). The operating doctor has a crystal ball and can see the happy surviving twin far in the future, skipping ropes, hailing the doctors name in praise forever. Often conjoined twins go through horrendous procedures of separation, sometimes the medical world too well aware that one or both could loose their lives, at an age where none of the twin can even speak their own mind.

Using fertility drugs and hormone treatment can lead to all sorts of surprises. Despite having the X and Y chromosomes, there are these variations, in rare cases, but still in sizable numbers:

Hermaphrodites = male and female (have ovaries, menstruation and testis; produces egg and sperm, but is physically unable to mate with itself, often the female opening is between the stem of penis and upper part of scrotum, variations);

Female pseudo hermaphrodite (ferms) = having ovarian tissues, not necessarily looking female;

Male pseudo hermaphrodite (merms) = having testicular tissues, not necessarily looking male;

Pseudo hermaphroditism = (XY or XX) primarily of one sex plus having secondary sex characteristics (perhaps a clitoris (or very small, male looking appendage) and no female opening at all, variations).

Many of the above are infertile, suffer from deformities, mental retardation, low IQ, and various other health problems and most likely a shorter life expectancy. Many, if not most, also suffer from identity issues, where does one belong, if there are only two boxes to fit in and none feels right? The doctors can help to make one look like one or the other, but that is just on the outer, the cosmetic effect, to make one more like everyone else. We all know for a fact that no two fingerprints are alike, that no two people are alike; we pride ourselves in being an individual. We drive cars, produced by the millions and some spent lots of extra money to make such a car unique, to make it stand out, to be different. Many make such statements in the clothing they wear, the hairstyle, the behaviour, but having a pimple on the nose is all it takes to hide inside, because one is not like everyone else.

In addition, we have the various forms of sexual differences in our humanity: Heterosexual, Homosexual, Bi-sexual, Transvestite, Hijra (no he, no she, neither male or female, it means ‘hermaphrodite’ in the Urdu language, many do not mix with male or females), Eunuch (male with male sex organs removed), the combination of Eunuch and Hijra, Inter-sexual (as young person is one, changes to the other gender during puberty (either way), the name is being phased out), Trans-sexual (male to female via double operation (removal of male bits/creation of female bits, no uterus) and hormone treatment), Trannies (Tranies) – Shemales (males with hormone treatment with male genitals and some female characteristics (breasts, hair, behaviour)). In one of the above one finds the female with enlarged clitoris, as big as the erect penis, able to penetrate another female (no sperm though).

So called paraphelia (from Greek, para=besides, phelia=love), which Albert Eulenburg (German neurologist, who published several works on sexology and an Encyclopaedia on Health) already in 1914 described in his time as “All forms of sexual perversions…”, and went on to continue to describe each in detail. There are at least nearly 90 practices grouped under the heading of ‘paraphelia’.

One could go on and on, the cross dressers, the swingers, sex addicts, narcissim, phone sexer, masturbators, the gay, lesbian or straight looners (a sexual interest in balloons) and so forth. Some enterprising business could link their product to some sort of sexuality, create on-line forums and meeting places and, not to forget business, a link of where to get the partner (the orgasmic car, the ejaculating fountain, the every ready fence post), be creative.

There is also another form of sex, the ‘not now sex’, and ‘sometime-in-the-future-sex’, what I mean is abstinence, waiting for marriage, waiting for the right partner or celibacy by choice.

Sex, sex, sex, some may never give it a second thought, but many of each ‘prime’ gender (and if this word ever takes off, I hereby claim my copyright and expect 1cent for each use of it) are bombarded by the thought every so often. It seems sex is the prime instinct, the reason of being alive, be that of animal, plant or humankind, to get to the stage to procreate is the purpose of all life and living. It is a very bold statement (I also accept that there are countless other opinions, based on various believe systems, none of which are covered in this article.). The creation of offspring goes hand in hand with the instinct for survival, food and self-defence.

In the early stages of development of the sexual organs, one would not know what is becoming. The eye can see it either way. Black and white, the end blocks we seem to be aware of, yet in between is a whole range of different shaded grey. Not only that, there is also a whole range of colour, not as 8bit, 24bit, 128bit, not even millions or billions of colours. There are no graduations at all, but a smooth, non-stepped line. There are not enough tins on earth for a store to stock paint in all colour shades. There is an infinite number of white, an infinite number of yellows and so on. Ah yes, is black a colour, is white a colour is a subject all its own, for the purpose here they are opposites and they are colours.

As hot has cold as opposite, no white without black. What is the opposite of sex?  While sex has many meanings, one of the most powerful ones is the purpose of procreation, the making of life. Is the opposite of that the taking of life? The Cain and Able curse, or the not making of life, perhaps it is the making of death. No victims come forward to say ‘kill me’, as they too contain the same life driving forces as any other living being. However, without a doubt, the defensive instinct has many men capable of killing, to protect their young, family and country. For some reason, the trees give the flesh of their fruits, without being killed. Even if the seeds are swallowed, they carry on the quest for life. Given the smallest chance, they shall try to make it, and need that mechanism as a means to get away from the tree.

As a child, the first time I heard the description ‘White men, White race’, I thought it was a special tribe living in Siberia, blending into the landscape, indistinguishable from the snow. I still have not seen a White man, just lots of Peach faces in various shadings. But with so many things, neat handles on any subject simplifies human interaction that much more.

Each is unique; we just need to accept that we really are unique. Are you expecting a boy or a girl or a ____ or a ____? Neither, it’s going to be a…, are you ready for it…? It will be wearing green; don’t you know what that means? In the incomprehensible magic of life, it is going to become a living being, trying to live the best it can, so that it reaches its destination in death. And if it misses that target, there will surely be someone ensuring it is not going to happen.

Many an animal lover projects the human measure stick onto an animal and thus does not understand the underlying rules (the pack instinct, herd instinct, pecking order, rules of feeding order, alpha domination etc) and therefore has trouble training any dog.

Perhaps we too use the measure stick of acquired morality and humaneness, which is seen as an ideal (and only in select societies), but in the cruelty of life or death of little consequence.

The war between the chromosomes X and Y has been raging perhaps since humankind began, unconscious to our awareness. Man loves woman and vice versa (with exceptions), yet the X chromosome has been chewing up the Y for thousands, if not millions of years, perhaps starting in pre human times (oh dear, another can of worms: creationism / evolution, let’s just say, ‘a long time ago’). We do not mourn (not that I am aware of) the deaths of billions of sperm. Does a woman mourn the loss of her unfertilised egg each month, most likely not (but this is my assumption, how would I know). Each girl carries a basket of eggs for life; each boy comes with a factory that produces regardless, well into old age. We get adrenalin on demand, tears on demand, saliva on demand, but one never knows when some sperm could be useful, so might as well make sure it’s always there. It also explains men’s hand movements that he is not even aware of anymore, the slight itch that makes one scratch, translated it means ‘slow down guys, I know you want to get out’, usually the left hand for right-handers sends the message.

When it really comes to survival the X has a job to do, firstly protect the mother at any cost, and ‘any’ means just that, kill your own if it saves the mother. If there are survival choices to be made in twins, or other multiples, the X will kill the male, and after that any Y children in order to protect the mother. The Y is no different, already under attack as soon as it is released, its only chance of survival is to race as fast as possible, not to be the first, just to get out of the acid around it (stay in the middle guys). The clever X or Y, once it gets to the egg, is taking a well deserved rest, lets all the other sperm do the hard work. Once the jelly coat is thinning near the membrane our hero or heroine jumps in and fuses with the egg, becoming one. 400 other hardworking sperm, all likely sibling contenders’ stand flabbergasted, ‘what the…’ as millions more arrive and realise there won’t be a next time. And as opportunistic as the winning sperm, so we all, at least once in our life (let’s say just before our life began), were the special ones, out of 500 million others, the clever, the strong, just to fuse with the egg. Did this create the ego? Yet if Y’s survival is at stake, it will attack its own mother. But every mother is XX, a twin sister would be XX, and the body that Y is in, or in the process of creating is XY. Y is always outnumbered. The male is clearly the weaker sex, most women know that, but graciously let their male live with some illusions.

We all (male and female and all the human gender we are) celebrate a new life, but when it comes down to the cruellest, most basic level of survival, we are possibly capable to kill such life for food or less. Not possibly, we are capable to do just that, as we (humanity) have proven plenty of times in history and are still doing just that.

The child of anyone is also our child, each man and woman is a grown up child and also our sister/brother/itling but only, if we are subjected to the ‘I love you spiritual influence’ endorphins. But once the baby has grown a little older, out of the big eyed ‘I’m so cute, please love me stage’ I could imagine it be very uplifting to at least once shout out of the window, ’can’t you tell your kids to shut up?’ I would love to do it to the Magpies, they can be a pain, but mother magpie can’t, her big kids are on a good thing and I do feel sorry for mum, besides, my ‘Magpian’ lingo skill are limited.

The showing of a life-giving breast is covered/censored in the media of some countries, seen as some sexual ‘no no’, while showing the blowing of brains out does no longer raise an eyebrow. Hide in the corner somewhere, if you are a mum with an infant; please don’t give it life in our shopping centre, we must ask you to leave. I don’t know how many deaths (real or acted, in movies, the News, as murders or wars) we get to see each week/month via movies or TV. There is not a law on earth against it, there is money to be made and yet discriminating the feeding from the breast is OK.

So it is all geared for one thing, survival, whilst too often we don’t even know why we live, our minute genes try their very best to give us the edge over anything we may come across. A great number of genes have not modified for millions of years, and can also be found in mice, unchanged for hundreds of millions of years. Perhaps the genes, the amino acids, DNA segments have no awareness of life, perhaps all they know is ‘be’, and in being, in joining together in wondrous and unique ways they form the building blocks of a becoming organism, then able to do the same thing, ‘be.’ I can’t sense my heartbeat, a lump of twitching heart cells; the heart so huge, pumping in two closed circuits blood, all within me. How could I possible sense the message within cell number 75billion, which is about to be replaced in 3 seconds?

Over 480 matched DNA segments have been uncovered, the shortest 200, the longest consisting of 800 base pairs (a lot of continual encoded information) to have remained unchanged for over 400 million years (before our time). Research scientists from University in Brisbane, Australia, in collaboration with Professor Haussler, UC Santa Cruz, and computational biologist Dr. Bejerano, who carried out most of the work, are unable to explain. While everything changes, a lot stays the same, in particular if it’s proven to work. A bit like the wheel, how much rounder could it possible get?

But an update on that, the longest are now not 800, but 280000 base pairs (a muscle protein, 33000 amino acids long). Whenever you get to read this, that number will be out of date. Sorry, correction, the longest is now 2.400.000 base pairs (dystrophin, a muscle protein on Chromosome 4). The 24m model made by the students of Huddersfield Uni does not count. Nobel Price winner Hamilton Smith led a research team whose synthetically created DNA has reached 582,970 base pairs (Jan 2008). They even added their own ‘watermark’ (the new creationism?).

Two worms with 20000 genes each don’t make a human, (some may disagree, believing there are exception), but 25000 to 40000 genes makes us human. Some say up to 50, 60 and 120000. What makes us special are the number of proteins encoded per gene, more than in any other species. We may share a large number of genes with any other animal and plants, but the protein on the gene may be very different. The building blocks of the protein are arranged in much wider possibilities in human than on a worm. As example, we share 90% of these protein building blocks with a worm.

So this we are, human, all the above, but only in the substances of our physical being. Animal research suggests that the length of some coding may well govern behaviour. Further influences are the health of both parents, healthy food supply for the mother during pregnancy, removal of influences of poisons (alcohol, smoking, drugs, fumes), parental cargo, cultural freight, societies, racial, religious influences, each teacher leaves some sort of mark, personal experiences and millions of other variables that day by day will make each more different, more unique.

The sexdrive does not stop when all the kids are born. More often than not, a healthy sexdrive is used for the purpose of recreation, of having a great time, of relating to one’s partner on an intimate level; experience a bonding of love and closeness, or live out one’s sexual fantasy, not to make babies.

Google reveals 4.9 million hits for ‘online sex’; 7 million hits for ‘sexual intercourse’; ‘f_ck’ has 150 million hits; 176 million hits on ‘p_rn’; 577 million hits on ‘sex’. The word ‘Hits’ is incorrect, they are just the targets, hits are the visitors who get to these sites and whatever multipliers you care to use are the number of assumed visitors. In contrast, there have been 37 Million Abortions so far in 2008. Some days later I got 212 million for f_ck, 242 million for p_rn, inflation is rampant. Much of that is created by the money makers. If there is a demand, some will try to fill it.

Bear also in mind that this is one of our most basic instincts. But here as well, I don’t think all is as it seems, as women and men will use very different approaches. The number of singles (even down to the age of 18 in either of the two ‘prime’ genders) who are looking for relationships (that may result in love, sex, hopefully both) is very high. Many look for just sex and perhaps find each other much quicker, after all, no commitment, no consequences etc. I think more people want that something special, something deeper and have difficulties finding it. But who knows, around the next corner there he/she/it is and bingo. Go forth; hit him/her/it in the face, ‘What took you so long?’

So what is sex? Is sex the close exchange of intimacy between two people who wish to become one in their child and build a family? Is sex the raw animalistic urge to mate anything that comes across one’s way? Is sex the unrestrained, no consequence exchange of primeval lust for selfish gratification and nothing else? Is sex the never penetrating / or being penetrated exchange of sexual thoughts and reactions, including orgasms / ejaculations, even if it occurs seemingly one sided, with a fence as partner, a car, anything but another human? There are possible a lot of moralistic views of what it supposed to be, but what it actually is may well be as diverse as humanity itself.

The conflicting messages in societies help little to alleviate the stress that is placed on both genders, and here I caught myself in my own small view of what humans are, ‘all’ genders would have been correct. Could it be, that Joan’s husband does not have erectile dysfunction at all, he loves her, he does not cheat on her, he is just not attracted any more. As soon as her sister walks across his path he is fully alive. Nelly is not frigid, she never was. Is it any wonder that the drunken breaths turns her in disgust, while she may fantasise about the young lolly next door, but could never do anything about it. The largest sex organ is the brain. Much goes on in there that goes unnoticed. Everything of what one absorbs from a partner is stored in there, evaluated, analysed. Did he wake up grumpy, did she make the coffee, did he bring the garbage out, she thought he was wrong, a million little things can affect the sex life, and most of those have nothing to do with sex. Often a simple understanding between the needs of another could solve more sex problems, than becoming an acrobatic performer, a 78 position chaser, a ‘let’s try this’ and see if it works. A single shot to the ego and many men fall apart, just as telling a woman how hot another one looks is not going to earn any bonus points. The turn-on buttons are not on the body, there are no buttons.

For many there is a ‘yes’ for the excitement, the passion, even the low down lusty urge, and all is fine, not to forget the ever so powerful influence of Venus, the goddess herself. There also comes a point when one becomes disgusted, in particular if a victim pays for it all. Perhaps cultural and societies standards play a great part in forming what constitutes healthy and unhealthy sex (apart from STD issues).

The early explorers would have seen many interesting and different attitudes towards sex on their travels around the world, in times long before the re-education campaign by religious missionaries. Sex in public used to be normal in some cultures, older women giving advice to young girls whilst having public sex. The girl may be as young as 12, copulating with an adult right in front of Captain Cook, never in England of course. Arranged marriages had young children marry their husbands. Many of today’s standards did not apply then.

Can one have love without sex? I would say yes, after all, they are two different things. If a health condition or accident takes that part away from a partner, love can and will find other ways. Love needed more now than ever, yet some, because of it, could leave. Many believe having both, love & sex together in the same person is the ideal and I would tend to agree with that, but accept that others may not feel that way. My question would be, is there a victim?

I have come to understand that there are 31 billion searches on Google every month (for anything); in 2006 it was 2.7 billion/month.

War gets   760.000.000, the victims of war are maimed or dead;
Kill gets     234.000.000, the same applies here;
Peace gets 408.000.000;
Love gets 2.240.000.000, isn’t that nice?

All this only covers the humans and there are many more prodigies, who are instantly recognisable as humans as well as children born who look unusual, caused by chemical or radioactive mishaps (and there are possibly more). The power of life in trying and succeeding to create a living being, that may be very different yet still considered human. Likewise in the food intake, starvation, malnutrition, vitamin deficiencies, missing of most of what we consider essential, yet still the powers of life sustain the body as best they can.

What of the part humans? The combining of human material with animal eggs (not a hybrid, call it a ‘cybrid’, and UK legislation is in place, to give the go ahead for such thingamajigs for research purposes). The purpose is for stem cell harvesting. (Issue 2605, Page 7, New Scientist, Health) It also allows the addition of non human genes or cells to human embryos (again for research).

A year later, Apr 2008, Science Correspondent Ronald Bailey gets a little carried away by the thought in his article, titled ‘Humanizing Animals.’ See: http://www.reason.com/news/show/125776.html As far back as 2002, Ronald Bailey covered the 33rd World Vegetarian Congress, dealing with issues relating to animal genes in plant foods.

(The following are my thoughts, not Ronald’s) It’s very easy to imagine a humanised cow. An extra pair of arms grow somewhere near the udder. Instead of bellowing in pain and waking up the neighbourhood, such cow would walk up to the bucket, clean it, milk itself, strain the hair out of it, knock on the front door and go ‘moo.’ Why not do butter, cream, yoghurt, cheese, ‘hey come back here, you’re not done yet.’

The world of ‘Manimals’ is upon us. Would you believe that millions of (amongst other things) human genes are owned by large companies. Up to one fifth of every person’s DNA belongs to some company. Whose DNA was it? Expect to pay a license fee AND royalties to take a look. Many of the issues relating to Patents on life are currently before the US congress. How come we are allowed to live without paying them a royalty?

Who is making life? Is it the modern Alchemist, with a big pot of genes, some bark from a distant tree and 20 million secret herbs and spices, start at midnight and stir slowly? When the first morning bird sings, run, before it explodes. What will it become? We don’t know yet, but it will become something, it will ‘be’. In the silent morning anticipation the voice of the pot can be heard from ten miles around, ‘Jump in master, you will make us complete.’ Whatever crawls out of the pot is looking for the fingerprint of God, just a wee bit of DNA. What are the risks? What’s the opposite of God?

No, no, I don’t wish to upset any believers, but isn’t the thought already in us, at least in some? Will we eventually go down the same road with our genes as the plant seeds? Buy a packet and the fruit you grow is infertile, because we need to protect our investments (the genes THEY own). Will the couple of the future have to buy the sperm to make a baby? Who will own all the genes eventually?

We are what we eat, so the saying goes, yet what is it that we eat? 80% of US cheese is no longer what it was, and that started 12 years ago. It would be so easy to go off on another tangent, processed foods and their effects, but no.

How did it all start, sex, ah, Sex, the joyful means to procreate, but that was last week, this week it is used for physical exercise, stress relief, even entertainment. Next week there will be a museum somewhere, ‘have a look at this, can you believe it, what were they doing?’

So what is it all about, what am I trying to say? We, humanity have sent messages into space, trying to communicate with the unknown, the alien. For a start, we have severe communication problems with each other, even if we were to speak in one language. The difference between what is said, what one thought one said, what one heard, what one thought one understood, and what one understood are not necessarily the same. Which of our animals can we understand, at least in part? Could we accept 10 different genders in the aliens, or get our doctors to snip and tuck, so they are easier to handle? When will we accept ourselves? When will we accept the other? Many countries have laws in place not to differentiate between colour of the skin, sex, age, and so forth, yet clearly each who is different beyond that will have to fight their own battles. But for this, they will never have the numbers, they can not win. They are not organised and live isolated across the globe, many believing there is no other like me. Discrimination can make one’s life a misery. Being different, the uniqueness so many treasure, ironically is also what makes some an easy target. It appears to be different is OK, as long as one can still fit in one of two boxes.

A cell has not separated from another somewhere in the process of growing a life and there, one has become different on the outer for all to see. All too often one is different on the inside, locked within one’s own cage none can see. With all the talk of sex and sexual preferences, leanings, one gift that life has brought us can overcome all differences. There is no need to spice it up, to make it fashionable or sexy. No tantalising tease of orgasmic floods as promise, no alluring eyes as invitation, one gift we have, no matter how we came to be, the gift of love. And those who know nod in silent knowing perhaps grace with a grin. And lots been said of what love is, what it can do, what it is not. What’s in it for me, we all too often ask of anything. What’s in it for us, be more appropriate, as it contains them and those and I as well. It’s easy to proclaim one’s love to the attractive, the sensual, the wealthy, the brave, ‘the one I want’. Be different, be daring, be unique and love the one you’d love to hate, the one that’s odd, the one none else would want to love, the one you did not speak to for a year. Perhaps you have an enemy, in that an opportunity to gain a friend. There is no need to barter all your heart; love has its own factory.

© Heinz Ross, Gold Coast, Australia
27 Nov 2008

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Consumption

I never met my great-grandparents, but do remember one grandfather on my father’s side and both grandparent on my mothers side, whilst they were alive. My grandfather (on mother’s side) is also my godfather. During their lifetimes the world began to change. Oh, the world is always changing, but this change comes with consequences, as every change does. Most of the year I lived life in the city of Kassel, in Europe, located on the river Fulda, approx. 350km north of the river Rhine.

My grandmother lived in a small village near the Rhine, close to the rock of Lorelei, where her legendary sirens echo from the rocks. Most in the area grow grapes and the fine wines are still highly valued to this day. Her village was named ‘Werlau’, placed high on the Rhine valley with beautiful spots to see the river snake its way towards the North Sea. I spent most of my summer holidays with her. My grandmother was a very religious lady. Reading and praying the Rosary were part of my childhood duties (chores), which I found rather boring. At that time, God was to be feared, although in nightly monologues I tried the art of diplomatic negotiations, making deals to pay for my sins. Sundays were holy days, nicely dressed, starting with a visit to the church down a steep road, past the Burg Rheinfels (Rheinfels Castle), into the Rhine Valley at St. Goar. Often my brother and I would walk the 4km distance, as it was just a beautiful place to take in. We called to the rocks and waited for the echoes to bounce back. The church inside was fascinating, due to the many art works and carvings and good acoustics. The ice-cream afterwards held a special attraction; I took it as reward for being still for an hour.

But going shopping with my grandmother was great, up in the village. The local bakery had various rolls (Wasser Wecke, Milch Broetchen, Breadrolls made with water, others with milk, both my favourites and many other goodies). But the rolls were uniquely shaped, as unique as the butter, which was a yellowish lump, wrapped in grease proof paper, weight approximately that much, all for a few coins. Milk came fresh from the cow, including some hair, warm as her udder from the next door neighbour’s cow shed, just across the road.

Once I went to a local fish shop and the slippery herring didn’t feel like being sold. The customer, a very vocal lady of advanced years in black folk dress laughed, and through teeth less smile she called to the sales assistant, ‘Losse do nenn hippe,’ then exploded in a huge holler of laughter. It took me awhile to dissect the heavy dialect, which was far removed from a news reader’s language. It had to do something with the fish and perhaps its slipperiness. ‘Losse do’, came close to my kasselaenerisch ‘Lasse doch’, in proper lingo ‘Lass sie doch.’ ‘Nenn hippe’ was a little harder, but since the fish ended up in a plastic bag it could have meant ’nein hippe, ‘nein huepfen, ‘herein springen’, or ’Lass ihn doch hereinspringen’, ‘Let him jump into it.’ Since she expected some sort of response from me, I nodded, returning her smile, and was glad that I could understand my grandmother most of the time, without the need to dissect every sound.

‘Why not shop in a shopping centre?’ I asked her, ‘oh no,’ I shouldn’t have asked that. ‘If I don’t buy from the locals, in time, there will be no locals to buy from,’ she explained.

The weekdays were the best. As city boys, we were invited into many homes, lived not just with my grandmother, but had access to many families in the village. Went out on the wagons, drawn by cows, another neighbour used a horse, just short of 1 hp, he was old. The horse was much easier on the eye than the behind of a pair of cows walking slowly. In some farm houses the chicken were part of the furniture, flying onto the breakfast table. It was an experience. All eating from one bowl in the centre of the table was another. We lent a hand on the land surrounding the village and got a feeling of what it is like when the harvest is brought in. We’d sit high, atop of the laden wagons, swinging to the potholes on the dirt-tracks. Beautiful memories and itchy backs, and what ever happened to…, what was her name? She wore her dark brown hair in two long plaits and had a country girl’s name, perhaps Emma, she used to get under the cow, hold a teat and squirt the milk like a water pistol. Great fun, when you’re 6 or 7.

Sometimes I stayed longer and attended the local school. It was so small that all grades fitted into one class room and one teacher taught all. In a small place like that, no one is a stranger for long.

Each year things changed slowly, tractors came in and so the drive to the outlaying fields became a little faster. The cobble stone streets became cleaner, as fewer animals were used to draw the wagons. In front of the houses were still the concrete framed pits that stored the soiled straw and animal waste, in smelly display of unpleasantness. When I was 8 my grandfather died. Everyone wore black for a year. A town crier used to spread local news, walking up the small lanes, ringing his bell and yelling with massive voice his message from place to place. Low flying swallows would indicate a change in weather.

In 1988 I had left my childhood far behind, flew back to Werlau, which was once my mother’s hometown. It did not exist anymore. Werlau had become a part of St. Goar. The new name is St. Goar-Werlau. The graves of both my grandparents are neatly kept by the family. The baker’s store has become part of the baker’s children family house. The place, were we got the butter from no longer makes any. Next door, the 12 or so cows and tractors, and all the farming machinery, and the smelly pits are gone. The farmer’s children have a job to go to. The outlaying properties have been absorbed by the largest farmer of them all. They use the modern gear that does as much as the whole village did together. Speckkuchen (a type of bacon quiche on a dough base) that was made by many of the women in the communal ovens, where long handled devices were used to retrieve them from the hot belly of incubation, when I was a kid, were no longer made. The place now used for another purpose. And so are the places of butchers, shoemakers, blacksmiths, as well as the dressmakers, milliners and of so many others, now used for something else. The uniqueness of their products is now replaced by the ‘we buy in bulk’ supermarkets, most likely cheaper and with no hair in the milk.

There is no longer a need to wash the aluminium can to get a refill of raw milk. The new milk is all pasteurised, free of E. coli 0157:H7, Staphylococcus aureus, Listeria, Campylobacter, Salmonella and T.B. Every time one buys it, it comes in a brand new sterile container. The neighbours tractor, in the once Werlau, has long been traded in for a car. The tractor lasted many years, perhaps still works today, but the first car it was traded for has been replaced countless times. The cars that ran on ‘Standard’ long gone, the ones on ‘Super’ are history; the cars that run on ‘unleaded’ are becoming history. Tractors were a lot simpler, they had a power take-off at the rear, and the older ones also had a wheel at the sides that could power all sorts of gadgets, like a saw and auxiliary farm equipment. But a tractor was a tough machine and details like leather seats, built-in radio, CD players, and safety doors were no issues. At least a bottle holder and lunch pack box would have been appropriate accessories. Tractor manufacturers were not yet on the ball, as tractors were not a status symbol.

Cars changed all that. The little letters at the rear, GT, SE, SL, 5l, 6l, 8 cyl, 500, oh no, my ego needs a 600 at least, better make that 6000. Fridges changed all that too, freezers, bathrooms, kitchens, TVs, and washing machines, telephones and internal water-flush toilets, all did their little bit to change the world. None of them are status symbols anymore. Dishwashers, electric inline water heaters, long since replaced by others types. The new world of white goods replaced countless times with monthly changing models and additional innovative devices, the electric toothbrush, meat slicer, remote control garage door, vacuum cleaner, in short, more electricity eating paraphernalia than a house could nurse with power points. The wood and coal fireplaces replaced by oil installations, providing central heating.

The film formats of a few changed to the video formats of the many, to be replaced and improved and with 200% certainty to be replaced again. The 16k computers jumped to 64k, to 4Mb, to 64Mb, to 1TB and may end up thousands of TB next week or thereafter. The records started turning faster, became a tape, which became a cassette tape, which became a CD, a DVD and memory chip.

How many goods in working order will have been replaced in the household over the lifetime of the occupier?

A ‘Lloyd Alexander TS’ was my first car. It had 600cc, 25hp, 2 cylinder/ 4stroke. It had 4 gears on the steering column and a rated top speed of 100km/hr. I got it to go 150km/hr down a long hill on the Autobahn; the needle wouldn’t go that far, a friend confirmed the speed, but the Lloyd did it only once. It gave up the ghost after that. I was 18 then.

Have lost count of how many cars I’ve been through, nor do I remember how many fridges, washing machines, lounges, and whatever else I’ve been through. How much of the pollution up there is my doing? How many degrees or fractions of degrees am I responsible for? How many mines, trucks, heavy machinery, planes did I keep operating, how many trees are on my conscience? How many miles have I travelled, how much pollution pumped out?

When I was 18, I never looked at the price of fuel. I never looked at the price of anything. Since then, the chase for the lowest number behind the decimal point has become common practice. I listened to the Marketing people, ‘why pay more?’ and abandoned the corner stores, which could never keep up with the big guys. And in doing so, the big guys have become bigger, the rest had to find a niche or go under.

So how do the big guys do it so cheap, do I know, do I care? Do I know that the grower gets a pittance of the charged price, the child labourer slaves all day, gets no penalty rates for extra long hours? Do I know that the cheapest meats contain the worst ingredients, responsible for future sickness? Do I know that the freshest apples are some years old? Despite, the owners rake in piles, their accountants used as sniffer dogs to squeeze another cent out here and there. The scientists employed to modify seeds and crops, livestock, the heritage of evolution, for longer shelf life, for faster and consistent growth rate, for animal-less steaks, for chicken-less eggs, for crops that have no seeds. Progress and innovation are possible as the result of consumption. The ever rising GDP used as measure of economic health. Negative growth a bad thing, depression or worse, recession, doom, jump out of the window time.

Consumption means many things, in the old films it referred to a wasting disease. Consume means devour, squander, destroy, waste, deplete, wipe out. A consumer is then a person that destroys, devours, squanders, wastes, depletes and wipes out.

But the more consumers we have, the better for the economy, and as a result the sooner we’ll have to face a serious dilemma. We can no longer rob the colonies (not officially); it’s going to get harder to find cheap labour countries, but not impossible. No longer will the ‘Indians, natives, aboriginals, indigenous,’ or which ever name we graced the ones who are different, accept a broken piece of mirror for their gold, perhaps they would, but no longer have they any gold to trade. Most goods are paid with currency, which can be used to buy the products made by them and those. The physical goods paid for with notes of apparent value, which are traded for other physical goods, plundered from the earth and ‘value’ added.

The search for cheaper suppliers will also create new markets, increasing demand even further, all becoming consumers that with every purchase consume parts of the planet. Bauxite under fertile ground, a fateful combination, mine sites near the food bowls’ water table is another, oil rigs and shipping near sensitive eco systems, each compromise brings us closer to the edge. Hills and mountains change their shapes as crushers eat them up and dipped in black tar become freeways, highways and toll roads.

Food is used as fuel, our poison and garbage sold to countries that live on the edge of survival, and with a philosophy or consumerism, constantly increasing turnover, increased GDP, return on investment all play a part that traps us in a vicious cycle. The poor sift through mountains of stinking debris to reclaim copper, metals, and anything that can be recycled, to be exchanged for paper money, surrounded by smoke and poisonous gases.

Wars of ideology become wars for resources of any kind, fought with robot man and AI devices controlled from afar. But a cycle it is not, as the blundered goods don’t regrow in the earth, the extracted oil has turned to fumes, which will not converted back to oil. The cycle is a spiral of demise. This we shall leave to our yet unborn.

The beginning of the industrial revolution, from the steam engine days to now, mere micro seconds in the life of time.

Population growth is in slow decline in Europe, steady in many countries, on the increase in many African nations, many of whom can not feed their own. The constant repetition of starvation, due to many causes, ruthless selfish rulers, corruption, unsustainable offspring numbers, mismanagement of funds and resources, climate change, the blundering by other nations, or a combination of many others, draws a picture of imbalance and moral dilemma.

The milk of mother earth is drying up. Perhaps intelligence can safe it, else we drink our mother’s blood in thirsting. Intelligence is a word with many meanings.

The CIA’s definition of intelligence is: The information our nation’s leaders need to keep our country safe. Put in context: The information the world leaders need to keep the world safe. Do we have leaders or have we become followers? Do we follow performers or people with vision? Does their vision transcend borders? How short is their vision?

Intelligence is the faculty of understanding. A pig with too many piglets will squash a few, so that its siblings have a chance of survival.
(intelligence – (learning – prior experience – memory)) = hard wired instinct.

Intelligence:
The ability to comprehend; to understand and profit from the experience;
The gathering and interpreting information about an enemy;
The ability to absorb information, reason, to formulate goals and make plans;
The ability to interact with the environment, adapt to changes;
The ability for original, productive thought, and there are so many more definitions for the same word.

It was intelligence that changed the world, started the industrial revolution, which is still continuing. In the process intelligence reached higher levels, starting other revolutions that changed the world. But too often intelligence partnered with self serving interests did and does little for the common good.

Intelligence combined with greed, power, ego and selective vision can be a destructive combination.

Sir Joseph Whitworth, who amongst many other inventions, devised a standard for screw threads in 1841. It became the first nationally standardised system. This eventually became a British Standard. It meant that one nut of a given size, angle and pitch would fit onto a bolt of the same shape, no matter who produced it. In expanded form it made mass production possible, each adhering to given standards.

A look inside a supermarket quickly demonstrates the greed and madness of manufacturers that has been accepted by the consumers of computer printers and the ink that goes with it. An entire wall is needed to feature the various brands to suit the countless models, most carrying black and red, green and blue ink in different sized containers, which as ink cartridges are a few dollars less, than an entire printer including its ink. If your printer is older than xyz years, rest assured, it will end up on the dump somewhere, as print cartridges are no longer available for that model. The ink is worth pennies, but because your printer needs it, it costs dollars.

A new model car costs a small fortune to develop, often put together from existing engines, some other undercarriage, and whatever else, so that each knows the newer model is the one that delivers all your dreams. It has become a world of throw away items and replacement goods, where wear and tear is finely matched to ones income capacity.

We have not realised that we are as one, no matter what we look like. The clan instinct is still very much alive, mostly just under the surface. We rather identify with select interest groups than the whole of humankind.

The five permanent members of the United Nations Security Council drawn from the victors of WW2. All have nuclear weapons. Four of the five are also the biggest arms exporters. The objectives of the UN Security Council are to maintain international peace and security.

Going back to the original thought, we all too often see more of our differences than what we have in common. Backroom deals, stooges, opinion makers, lobby groups, all unelected self serving groups that either have voices, power or money to twist the arms of others. And if it’s not them, then the local heroes or preachers of fear and doom, or the prophets of heavenly bliss will have their ten cents worth of influence.

Each has tried and ideologies have led to persecution, wars and destruction, love thy neighbour has killed so many. The preachers had a demand, a claim on heaven, theirs the only true word. They dismissed the faiths of millions of others, as misguided ideologies. Various interpretations of scriptures and manipulations to meet objectives, all the influence of men’s imperfections presented as truth.

1970, 80, 90, the hope, oh in the year 2000 everything will be so different. The New Year started from the east, crossing the timelines of all during the following 24 hours. Each city was celebrating with joyous faces, heralding a new beginning that leads us out of the dark ages, a moment of worldwide common feeling. I took a picture of the sunrise 1. Jan 2000, perhaps many others did too, as symbol of a new era, a time of promise. No one made such promise, many had expectations.

Is there a common conscience, a global comprehension of what needs doing? By saying ‘mine is better’, we also mean ‘yours is not.’ Is not intelligence also our enemy?

We see ideals, patriotism, the honour for the flag (whatever colours your country may have) as noble traits, our cultural, political, religious and ethical identity as something worthy to cherish and defend. Often our upbringing, our belonging forges our being into believing this, that or the other is what one needs to keep as ongoing legacy.

As far back as 1966, I had discussion with a friend of mine, who entered the then new profession called ‘Umweltschutz’ (Environmental Protection). How long have scientist wailed their warnings. How many disproved their colleagues for whatever reason. At least now, carbon trading has a value, there are deals to be made. It may not buy a clear sky, but it looks like someone is doing something. Of course a low wage country producing all the goods will also produce the pollution that goes with it, as long as the country is on the lee side of the wind. ‘Smoking is good for you,’ paid stooges claimed without batting an eyelid. ‘There is no pollution under your houses, schools, suburbs,’ the paid experts exclaimed, while the poison seeps into the residents, killing them with cancers following years of suffering.

We sent signals into space to establish communications with aliens, yet fail to understand the language of our animals and are too often incapable to comprehend the reasoning of our fellow men. Can we not hear the missing sounds of those we helped to wipe out? The scraped up DNA samples used as comfort, perhaps one day used to fix it all.

The tribes that could live in harmony and sustainability in their environment are now reduced to dance for coins, some have become drunken derelicts, living in another world, displaced and ripped from their roots.

Some have proven that it is possible to amass a personal wealth in excess of US$56 billion in less than a lifetime, and in doing so become as beacons to others, as anyone can reach that level too, in theory. Once, being a millionaire meant to be rich in wealth. Now the list of billionaires having over US$15 billion each is getting very long. Yet each dollar in a billionaire’s pocket is a dollar less in everyone else’s. Time has shown that this imbalance is steadily increasing.

The poorest of us all has 65% of his/her bodyweight in oxygen, a bit of carbon, hydrogen, a little bit of nitrogen and calcium, and a very little bit of various other compounds. That’s all. He/she may crave a drop of water, a piece of bread, some medication for their kids, perhaps a sheet of plastic as a home or less.

By property deed we believe to own a speck of dirt or a place at the water front, yet we are tenants at best. Each speck we claim is taken from someone else, be that a bear, a fox or a thousand birds. From my grandparents to now, what have we done to our home?

There is no ‘us’, no ‘we’, no common identity. We are not earthlings; we are females, males, lots of genders beyond that, adults or kids, Europeans, Asians, Africans, Jews, Moslems, Catholics, French, Lebanese, Koreans, lower class, middle, upper class or classless, engineers, thinkers, plumbers, artists, makers and takers, followers and individuals. Each identifies with one or another idea, believe, concept and direction, or none at all.

We are animals of the kingdom ‘Animalia’, from the class ‘Mammalia’, the order of ‘Primates’, the family of ‘Hominidae’, the genus ‘homo’, the species ‘homosapiens’ and subspecies ‘homo sapiens sapiens’. Homo sapiens, taken from Latin meaning ‘wise human’ or ‘knowing human.’

We can recognise ourselves in a mirror, not many in the kingdom of Animalia can do that. We can crawl, climb, swim and dive, even fly, we enjoy sex (with few exceptions), we reach orgasms, some wonder about the paint on the ceiling, we think abstract thoughts, create, invent, handle tools and, and, and no other animal can do all that as one species. Although many animals can do many things better than us, with applied intelligence and appropriate tools we’ve overcome many of our shortcomings. We can outrun a cheetah by sitting down with the foot on the gas, we see further than an eagle’s eye with satellite images, with massive sized antennas. We are faster than any fish and can adapt to most environments.

Other animals have no votes, no voice, no decision making powers. Trees, plants and insects have no voice either. All are made of cells. Yet we share and need our fellow animals and plants. A wagtail may just had a chance to avoid an approaching rifle bullet, but it will not escape a 5000mph 8 mega-joule electromagnetic rail-gun, or a million bullets per minute, or an airborne chemical oxygen iodine laser, or electromagnetic radiation, microwave beams, which will burn off all its feathers before it knows what hit it. But a wagtail is no enemy of any men. Wolves and bears, white pointers, snakes, crocodiles and lions, tigers, germs and viruses, all capable of bringing men down. But h-bombs, a-bombs and e-bombs are not directed at the kingdom of Animalia, just at one of the species therein. The thousands of others that become fried to a crisp are collateral damage. Napoleon is perhaps one of the last leaders actually riding alongside his army, being close to the action. Presidents, Prime Ministers, Chancellors and Emperors remain far from the battlefields. Their armies do the deed, some as joystick soldiers firing weapon systems that leave no sound in the faraway ‘homeland’, the screams of the dying unheard. Sympathy has little chance to grow, as those are the bad guys, we certainly are not; they, the baddies are very different from us.

A single room, where each country leader could sort out their differences with the enemy’s leader, would save massive costs and lives on all sides. Both could assume to be the last men standing, instead of wasting the lives of the people they are meant to serve. No need to fight to the last drop of every citizen.

The weapon’s manufacturers and their directors are maybe the first to oppose such idea, with the shareholders not far behind. Perhaps the leaders of industry would also oppose that thought, after all, if destruction can go hand in hand with re-construction the economic returns make it all worthwhile (my pardon for being sarcastic).

1988 saw the attack on a common enemy of men, poliomyelitis, which did maim 350000 children per year with paralysis. Polio is now mostly confined to 4 countries, currently claiming just over 1000 victims globally (Data in WHO HQ, Aug 2008). This world is based on the survival instincts of the fittest, be that men or the cancer cells within men.

What if we had no past, we most likely would create a different future. Imagine there is no hell. No history, no traditions, no customs, no hierarchies, no rituals, no past scores to settle, no religious battles, no superior race, no borders, no domination over another, each has claimed a lot of blood and will continue to claim more. Would we feel lost without it? If we were any other animal and watched what men is doing to the planet and its own species, would we not think of humankind as polio?

Population statistics indicate 25 out of 230 countries have a negative population growth rate; all other countries will increase the number of their population to various degrees. If one takes the total world’s population in the year 1AD at approx 300000, in 1000 at 310k, in 1250 at 400k, in 1500 at 500k, in 1900 at 1650k, in 2000 at 6124k, today (Aug 2008) at 6835k and estimate in 2050 at 9294k
(Source:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_population_growth_rate).
The average world population rate is 1.17%. Based on this, the population will double in just less than 60 years to 13.670 billion people. Never in known history has such a rapid increase in the world’s population been experienced, in particular as in the last 500 years.

Taking stock of the rapid changes, upheaval and tempering of nature’s finely balanced systems over the last 200 years, has had an impact on every continent and the oceans on earth. In men’s mind, the future is a forward projection based on the past.

Will the next 200 years be a progression of our past? The numbers don’t seem to support this, especially if each expects a living standard that is unsustainable. The dream of happiness may well be limited to food, shelter and reasonable health, which even today is not guaranteed, much less so in the future.

Imagine there is no humankind. The rivers and oceans will find a balance, nature has time to recover, trees and forests have a chance to regrow, filter our poisons, animals and plants find ways to recover. Healing is given a chance. If no child is born, the world is free of humankind in 100 years. Perhaps this thought goes against our built-in instincts, against all religious teachings, against all we have come to accept. Perhaps a sensible reduction in numbers could lead to a world where we don’t become the endangered species.

We do have the ability to adapt. In local and global emergencies we can act as one. Often these times of natural disasters bring out the best in men, can unite communities, display a genuine desire to assist and help with whatever means. In such times we can lose our sense of hierarchy, be selfless, be concerned for the other, irrespective of who the other is. Anyone would jump without hesitation into a pit of mud or worse to save a life. Many who have gone through disaster, be that floods, cyclone, earthquake will also have noticed the change in men, the courage, commitment and self sacrifice we are capable of.

We also have the ability to bring down borders, build bridges across nations and ideologies, reach out and share in the life of the individual, through friendships and associations.

The gods of money are paper-thin, have no substance, have little worth.

If we don’t find an answer, nature certainly will.

Links of interest:

http://www.poodwaddle.com/clocks2.htm

© Heinz Ross, Gold Coast, Australia
21. Aug 2008

Afterthought:

Since writing the above, fuel has reached the highest level ever, fuel has crashed too, financial markets have crashed, unemployment on the rise everywhere, large and small businesses go to the wall. The worth of many appears worthless. The basics have reached a new importance.

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Two dreams

I had two dreams during the night.

The first dream has me standing at a Gold Coast beach looking eastward, over the ocean into the distance. A haze obscured where the horizon meets the water. The dream set in the time of present day. Through the haze, I noticed a faint bright dot moving skywards trailing behind an even fainter cloud, barely noticeable, blending into the haze. Scanning the horizon sideways, I noticed another small dot, which looked identical to the first, ascending at the same speed skywards. `Did you see that?’ I asked a person nearby. `See what?’ he replied. And if one looks across the distance nothing is obvious. But when I directed his eyes to the two spots and explained to focus there, he too could faintly see what I described. The islands New Caledonia, Tonga, Cook Islands, Polynesia are slightly north-east of the east coast of Australia, Gold Coast, with Chile far beyond the curve, Norfolk Island  much closer, a little south-east from where I stood. In succession, several more bright dots launched from the two spots. As soon as the two were high enough another two rose up. In the foreground young kids splashed in the water, swimmers between the flags, on either side of the flags surfers catch the waves. At 35 deg C a cold shiver runs over my back, while the sounds around me are filled with laughter, seagulls screeching, waves rolling in. Am I looking at the launching of missiles from submarines, or from vessels beyond the horizon obscured by the haze? I could not sense who the senders were, nor the payload or intended target. Then I looked at the waves, watched the parents guarding their kids, the old couples walking hand in hand along the beach, the sand castles and footprints washed out by the incoming tide as if to salvage the moments of an ordinary day at least as a memory for posterity.

The other dream played in a mixture of time, the past as well as the present and future, in an unknown place up in North Queensland or the Northern Territory, Australia. A very old aboriginal man is sitting on the ground resting his back against the wall of a bottle shop drinking alcohol (Alcohol generally sells in pubs and bottle shops in Australia). He nods with serious face, then shakes his head in disbelieve and takes another few gulps of spirit. He is deep in thought, Dreamtime, the rainbow serpent, the waterholes then and now. The young man he speared in his legs for starting a fight, the curse he unleashed on two members of another tribe, all so long ago when he once was a tribal elder. He gulped half the bottle at once and swore. He looked at his bare feet where the mud had baked dry, picked up as he crossed the river that hadn’t seen water for many years. Its edges are like hard-edged cracked clay islands, the deepest part of the riverbed contains a little mud that could not even enable the smallest fish to swim. Despite, life could quickly return. Those that could would have buried deep to survive. He had seen it many times.  His eyes catch the roos that can barely stand upright. Those who still stood are mere skin and bones. Along the way to his waterhole, he steps over many a carcass. There are remnants of emu, egret, bilby, bandicoot, frilled lizard, the bones of water buffalo and camel. There are so many more that the sun quickly bakes extracting all content of moisture. He finishes the bottle and throws it away. `When did it all change? Why has it come to this?

Then he knew that times began changing after he raised his newborn son sky-high towards the sun. Change came slowly, but irreversible. 18 years later, he buried his son, who took his life when he couldn’t see the sky. Rainbows became rare and then disappeared altogether. `Are they now within me?’ he wondered. The serpents are now black they have no longer red bellies. They snake across the country, but never move, each leading to a waterhole where the spirit is bottled and sold. It helps to forget. He staggers up to stamp his heel hard onto the ground as if to dance to wake the sleeping serpent underground.

©Heinz Ross, Gold Coast, Australia
3.10.08

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