Challenging sacred cows

ice-cream cone

Humane is a confusingly versatile word. Lately, it’s featured in the Oz media, and beyond, with public outcries for humane treatment of refugees and our livestock exports. Re the former, just for starters, ‘humane’ would mean not incarcerating those who’ve chosen to throw themselves on our mercy, as if they were criminals (rather than victims) until proven innocent. But in the case of innocent creatures that are at our mercy to begin with, ‘humane’ means a bolt shot into the brain, a slit throat, and bleeding out, heart still pumping, so consumers can eat unspoiled meat.

How can we use one word for such different circumstances? The Macquarie Dictionary (2009) offers two definitions: 1. characterised by tenderness and compassion for the suffering or distressed: humane feelings. 2. (of branches of learning or literature): humane studies.

The first definition involves subjectivity; the second, objectivity – so #1 would apply to widespread sentiment re our government’s harsh stance towards refugees (both prior to and after arrival, if they survive their trial by sea). But what does ‘tenderness’ have to do with killing – unless it refers to the flesh consumed by carnivores harbouring qualms (whether of ethics or personal health or due to flashes of true compassion)?

In his profoundly provocative book about what we eat, The World Peace Diet (2004), Will Tuttle sets the bar for definition #1 far higher. And though I’d been warned before reading, I still find the title misleading. Tuttle offers scant guidance to anyone needing advice on balanced meat-freedom. Did he hope for a slice of the vast diet books market?

Tuttle firmly believes we can achieve world peace by going vegan; our animal-based diet is unnatural, a hangover from 8–10 millennia ago when a wrong turn in human culture gave rise to capitalism. But you don’t need to credit his uneven research, let alone agree world peace is possible, to see from the stats, now way out of date, that to eat meat, dairy products and eggs on a regular basis isn’t just cruel but self-defeating.

A heretic on a heroic mission, Tuttle exhorts us all to adopt a plant-based diet for ethical reasons. Yet he tells us that to do so first requires a ‘genuine spiritual breakthrough’. It did for him, as he recounts in the engaging penultimate chapter, but elsewhere, I found the loose language of his mysticism problematic. The word ‘sacred’ recurs in the text so often, it lost meaning for me, variously referring to life, feasts, the feminine, the masculine and work. The World Peace Diet doubles as religious treatise and scholarly thesis, mixing new-age rhetoric and hardcore vegan dogma with notable quotes, statistics, ethics, history, anthropology etc. I’m not saying Tuttle should have narrowed his focus. Readers quick to grasp his thesis may find some points repeated ad nauseam. Yet other points could have been explored in greater depth. The more simplistic his logic gets, the less Tuttle convinces. For instance, ‘to stop viewing animals as commodities,’ he says, ‘means we would have to stop viewing them as food.’ Then why, some readers may wonder, when some animals eat others, shouldn’t we, if we’re animals too? Because, Tuttle argues, we’re herbivores:

Could anyone, or would anyone chase down, say, a deer, cow, pig, sheep, goat, or rabbit in the wild and then, somehow catching her (highly unlikely) fall on her neck with our small, flat human mouth, tear through the fur and skin into the living flesh with our small human teeth, and fill our mouth with the fresh, hot blood of the unfortunate creature? This scenario shows the complete absurdity of what we humans are doing when we eat animal flesh (p. 68).

Does Tuttle likewise see the absurdity of driving (with his wife Madeleine, like a modern-day Jesus spreading the gospel) around the US in a solar-powered mobile home? Besides lacking long, sharp canines, we weren’t born on wheels. And how many herbivores work in auto plants (or Apple factories)? Presumably Tuttle doesn’t eat lentils or soybeans raw either. He makes a stronger case re the insane unsustainability of our uniquely human sense of entitlement:

A conservative estimate is that the amount of land, grain, water, petroleum, and pollution required to feed one of us the Standard American Diet could feed fifteen of us eating a plant-based diet (p. 185).

That alone should give any leftist pause if they aren’t yet vegan. And if it doesn’t: ‘[…] we have become agents of ugliness and death, serving the interests of enormous industrial conglomerates and corporations that exist primarily to maximize their own self-centered profits and power (p. 146).’ Or, for those who need it spelled out:

[…] to work for social justice and environmental protection while continuing to purchase the flesh, milk, and eggs of horribly abused animals exposes a disconnect that is so fundamental that it renders our efforts absurd, hypocritical, and doomed to certain failure (p. 133).

Tuttle also gently points out the hypocrisy of would-be Buddhists who regularly eat sentient beings, exercising especial tact with regard to the Dalai Lama (who’d cited his doctors’ advice as an excuse). And did I mention Tuttle’s feminist?

‘Like science, the religious establishment has tended to reinforce the domination of animals, women, and nature, and to further the interests of the ruling elite. Like science, it tends toward being hierarchical, patriarchal, and exclusivist…(p. 160)’.

Spiritual breakthrough or not, maybe what’s needed is some research and to stop distracting oneself long enough to let in some sobering facts. For instance, more than 70 billion land animals are killed for food each year: more than nine animals for each human on the planet? (Even if some folk are eating more than their share, there must be some gross waste somewhere. Oh yeah – more than a third of all food produced each year for human consumption?)

And ever wonder why politicians (and the media) fixate on the issue of CO2 emissions, forgetting the far more potent methane cattle emit? Tuttle’s metaphor, ‘eating animal foods is the elephant in our living room’, is apt. But even if so much crazy injustice remains ‘taboo to confront or discuss’, at the rate our species is breeding, soon we may all be forced towards veganism. To instead approach it voluntarily may be one of the few consequential choices left to most humans as corporate-ruled, increasingly dispensable consumers.

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Characters who identify with their authors


A writer friend who’d offered to read my second draft of a short novel recently gave me the following marginal feedback: ‘I’m having a little trouble sifting fiction from reality. I assume that won’t be a problem for most of your readers.’ And: ‘I suppose that’s one way to relieve a little stress over [X’s] behaviour – slightly mind bending trying to separate your emails from your story!’

The emails to which my friend refers were written more than a year before the comparable bit in my story, so the source of stress had long since been addressed. Though I’d hoped for more constructive comments, wouldn’t it be good if his confusion were due to my having achieved a seamless interweaving of what I’ve observed or experienced with what I could only imagine? But if he cared to read any contemporary literary fiction – or, like many writers pushed for time, a range of current reviews – he’d soon discover lots of writers borrow freely from their biographies. As Helen Elliott tells us, in her review of the novel Fever of Animals, ‘Portrait of the writer as an artist in search of himself’ (Spectrum SMH, 5 Sept 2015):

When Rachel Cusk, best-known for her unadorned autobiographical fiction, was interviewed last year about her new book she explained that making up characters was “fake and embarrassing”. She went on: “I’m certain autobiography is increasingly the only form in all the arts. Description, character – these are dead or dying in reality as well as in art.”

In an age of Elena Ferrante and Karl Ove Knausgaard, her words ring with truth. And this truth, about not making up things that are fake or embarrassing, is what gives authority to the voice of Miles Allinson. His central character is also called Miles and he shares a lot with the actual author.

Elliott could as well have said, ‘In an age of selfies…’ But Allinson is, as she indicates, following a trend, acclaimed examples of which include The Spare Room (2008) by Helen Garner, Summertime (2009) by J.M. Coetzee, and 10:04 (2014) by Ben Lerner. And my writer friend’s innocence of this trend adds to the irony that his own history, home environment, personal traits and significant relationships provide backstory, setting, style of narration and main characters in his latest thriller.

So, did I likewise have ‘trouble sifting fiction from reality’ when he asked me for feedback on multiple drafts? I don’t think so. It took no effort to tell or guess the difference. But that’s not what makes fiction – or nonfiction – interesting. After all, every story entails fabrication, because memory progressively rewrites history over time (with the help of an editing function Freudians call repression).

Obviously, some novels include more ‘facts’ or ‘truth’ than do others, while much nonfiction contains invented dialogue; and obviously, suppression of certain, often intriguing, facts is standard practice: to lower the risk of legal action. But the artificial distinction serves, above all, the purpose of marketing, so critics and even authors continue to think in terms of compartments. For, what is a compartment but a means of separating one type of person, place or thing from another (ally from antagonist; emails from a story; memoir from fantasy) for the sake of expedience, privacy or sanity?

Novelist Siri Hustvedt has astutely observed that sexism often underlies assumptions that her fiction is based on her life. (In contrast, her husband has had to deal with assumptions that even his memoirs are made up.) ‘The man is so clever everything is a kind of Derridean deconstruction and everything a woman writes is confessional?’ Hustvedt once said. And women, not just men, make that mistake; it’s natural enough. But other friends haven’t found my use of (modified) real-life facts distracting – unless they’ve recognised, rightly or wrongly, a character based on themselves. One friend – informed in advance that she’d inspired a (benevolent) character – complained that my portrayal of facts was inaccurate. Maybe her own desire to write a memoir had warped her perspective?

Would that friend, who took her own life before she managed to write about it, have felt encouraged if she’d known just how much the nonfiction market would grow? I doubt it – she’d made no concessions to trends as a brilliant, original artist. Be warned: attempting to write an authentic memoir is not for the faint-hearted. Meanwhile, as the line dividing autobiography from fiction gets blurrier (paralleling the line between the real and the virtual?), the boundary between novelistic and essay forms – strictest in genre fiction – is breaking down. According to Anna Hedigan, in her essay on true crime, ‘The Mechanics of Justice’ (Australian Author, Dec 2015): ‘The novel’s had a bit of a crisis lately. It’s arguably been displaced by non-fiction as the most prestigious form of writing.’ (Prestige, I’m guessing she means, as demonstrated by sales figures?)

The destabilising shock that 9/11 dealt the West has been cited as a major factor in nonfiction’s rapid rise. But of course it’s far more complex than that. There’ve never been so many humans inhabiting this planet, all of whom must increasingly compete for dwindling resources, while digital corporate surveillance reduces each individual to a statistic, his or her psychology to a formula. Meanwhile, more and more poor misguided souls want to be authors. Why wouldn’t these hordes seek to deny or resist the signs of their waning significance by re-imagining their unfulfilled lives as a hero’s (or heroine’s) journey? And for those loath to retreat into cosy egocentric fantasy, maybe our culture’s growing insulation from wild nature, extreme weather, poverty, ageing, death etc., incites us to engage with what feels real and immediate, however unromantic?

According to novelist Brian Castro, in his essay ‘Forgetting Paris’ (Australian Author, Aug 2003), ‘the French fortunately don’t have those false and infantilised categories of fiction and non-fiction’. The context is Castro’s account of being in ‘a place where ideas seemed to matter’ (a reference to French culture, not just the whole floor of books in an emporium where he’d sought warmth). Later in the essay, he writes:

Indeed, the novel sets itself apart by its uselessness. […] It is hopelessly irrelevant. If it is complex, it is unlikely to be noticed. But the novel may well provide a circularity to the moronic linearity of life.

Am I a writer who dreamed of being a character or a character dreaming that I’m a writer? The answer might depend on whether I write to escape or embrace real life.

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Google-gaga: the changing language of spiritual experience


At a recent poetry gig, I raved to an ageing poet about Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, an example of prose that’s more poetic than much current poetry. ‘Reading it is a spiritual experience,’ I said without irony – probably naïve of me in an academic environment. Yet I had no conscious desire to provoke her.

‘I have a problem with the word “spiritual”,’ she said.

My eyebrows rose in polite enquiry. She objected to the word’s ‘new-age’ connotations. Imagination means the same thing, she said. Not necessarily, I said, then clarified that I’d meant transcendent rather than religious.

Trans just means across,’ she said with obvious impatience.

Trans also means above,’ said the poet sitting between us.

Indeed. For me, McCarthy lends an exalted perspective to post-apocalyptic darkness – his biblical diction, stark imagery and mesmerising rhythms inducing a meditative state in which I can read undistracted in noisy, crowded places.

In a hearteningly radical work, What is Madness? (2011), psychoanalyst Darian Leader compares psychosis with neurosis: ‘The absence of doubt is the single clearest indicator of the presence of psychosis (p. 116).’ So someone with total – psychotic – conviction regarding some truly bizarre beliefs might still have the sense to keep them secret for fear of sounding crazy. As Leader explains:

Neurotic people, prone to doubt, are often impressed when they meet someone who seems sure of him or herself, convinced of their beliefs. This is why sects, cults and religious movements so often form around charismatic individuals who seem certain of their purpose in life (p. 118).

This kind of certainty is synonymous with faith. And Leader’s not the first theorist to note that questions of meaning feature in schizophrenia. As science or, more precisely, modern medicine has taken over the role religion once played in moderating society’s anxiety re mortality, the signs of a spiritual calling (visions, voices, speaking in tongues) have been pathologised – demonised, in a way. What once passed for angelic or demonic visitation has been localised, narrowed down to wonky brain chemistry. Divine inspiration, for the would-be ‘creative’ (creator), can be replicated through modelling of geniuses’ behaviours. No longer created or programmed by ‘God’, we’ve become our own makers, agents and sellers. Not content to depend, either, on artificial (external) intelligence, we can’t wait to incorporate its technology into our bodies – to negate the inner space that once enabled mystical states.

Reporting on biohacking, Gillian Terzis, who works in ‘an industry characterised by diminishing horizons – journalism’, reports that

Grinders make themselves the subject of scientific enquiry, hoping to elevate the human condition, override the limitations of their physiology, or augment their sensory perception through technology. An array of mild superpowers awaits the aspirational cyborg: people are already implanting magnets into their fingers to feel the push and pull of forcefields.

Meow-Ludo Meow-Meow, rising star of the biohacking firmament and co-founder of Oz’s first grassroots DIY science lab, tells Terzis he’s considering offering Sydney’s BioFoundry members lab access via a chip embedded in their hand ‘because it’s fucking cool’:

It’s good to be an early adopter and say, ‘I’m putting my body on the line and doing something cool and challenging.’ Even though it’s no more impressive than wearing a bracelet, it shows where things might go.

The mind boggles at such logic. Let’s hope Terzis has taken his quote out of context. Still, isn’t the merging of machine with flesh just a clumsily literal bid for transcendence?

A reporter on cutting-edge technology for decades, journalist and author John Markoff says the next global computing platform to come after the smartphone will be some form of ‘augmented reality’, with companies racing to develop

technology that causes the mouse to disappear, the keyboard to disappear, the smart phone disappear. You will interact with the computing resources that are all around you in the Cloud and wherever else by just speaking and looking through your glasses.

That should leave less room for doubt – and independent thought. We’re headed for a virtual womb. How fucking cool is that? According to Hegel (1770–1831), we can think and understand only in language: ‘It is in names that we think’. (Not unlike computers?) And now, more and more, we think in brand names: e.g., ‘google’ is a verb, a ‘doing word’ that’s used with increasing frequency (and sounds disturbingly like the nonsense words adults burble at babies). But what’s a verb for ‘spirituality’?

To paint might fit – in the case of what’s looking like an endangered breed of artist. In the ravishing monograph Roy Jackson: Hands On (2015), art critic Terence Maloon writes of the late great painter, ‘For Jackson, as for Tuckson, commitment to art was an all-consuming spiritual discipline (p. 23).’ It’s good to know that not all artists and critics have lost sight of where mark-making came from; haven’t thrown the baby out with the bathwater. Re discipline, Maloon quotes Simon Leys (The Hall of Uselessness, p. 298):

Through the ages, in the East as in the West, the great mystics who achieved complete obliteration of the self were also the most forceful and original personalities. In the art of calligraphy, as in spiritual life itself, when self-denial is complete, self-expression reaches its plenitude.

How much scope remains for such an approach to art (or poetry) today? If I might take the liberty of messing with Leys’s equation: In the virtual world, as in reality itself, when self-obsession is complete, self-expression reaches its nadir.

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Use It or Lose It: the intelligence that ‘difficult’ reading develops


My favourite event at the recent Sydney Writers’ Festival was ‘A Radical Rethink’, a discussion between three doctors: Karen Hitchcock, Norman Doidge and Ranjana Srivastaya. ‘Can we change our brains?’ asks the blurb. ‘How can we retain quality of life into old age?’ The discussion soon polarised, Srivastaya playing devil’s advocate and Doidge and Hitchcock, the radicals, challenging mindless assumptions.

In her superb Quarterly Essay 57, Dear Life: On Caring for the Elderly, Hitchcock says (re the threat of the ‘grey tsunami’, a term often applied to baby boomers):

The real tsunami is not one of age per se, but of a population of increasingly poor, obese, diabetic, sedentary young and middle-aged who are the multi-morbid patients of the future and who will require many drugs, doctors, operations […] and hospitalisations (p. 30).

Taken out of context, this sounds as if our challenge is to deal with physical decay. But: ‘About a quarter of Australians over the age of eighty-five now live in care facilities. Dementia is the reason half of them have been institutionalised (p. 54).’

In his essay ‘Why Google is a Political Matter’ (Monthly, June 2015), John Keane says Julian Assange ‘understandably rejects the pre-political flavour of grandiose claims about the end of narrative intelligence.’ Dismissive of charges that Google (the net) is spreading ‘digital dementia’, Assange says ‘there’s something else going on’ and ‘we should pay attention to its novelty’.

Fair enough. Isn’t our collective docility less Google’s doing than its opportunity? If Google is truly making us stupid, TV paved the way, and before it, the information technology TV superseded: radio. Plenty of folk whose TV or radio drones all day will never progress to the mental effort of asking a search engine questions; though, as Assange says, Google is much more than that: ‘a type of private National Security Agency’, because ‘digital automation is inherently coupled with the efficiencies of integrated centralisation and control’. Why wouldn’t intelligent citizens seek to resist mass control? But hey, don’t get me started on history.

Right now, the incidence of dementia (Latin for madness) is on the rise. And so is human longevity everywhere. Hmm… Is dementia inevitable, given enough time? But depression, too, is on the rise, and much of it’s not age-related (try googling age-specific suicide rates). Yet, it can be. For example…

A healthy 93-year-old woman’s memory is deteriorating. She might recall the name of an acquaintance not seen for 70 years at the mere mention of a 21st birthday party, yet forget a phone conversation that occurred just hours earlier – or score 100% on a standard cognitive test, satisfying her GP that she’s free of dementia, while the GP’s receptionist calls a locksmith: the woman has left her house keys at home. A widow, she lives alone; has done for over a decade. Yet all her husband’s effects remain undisturbed – she doesn’t like change. Since his death she’s refused to learn anything new, shuns mobile phones and computers, and suffers depression and anxiety. Her friends and relatives have dwindled and she lacks any urge to seek new friends. Loneliness intensifies her depression, and vice versa. Too much of her social contact is reduced to transactions with relative strangers, purveyors of goods and services, not all of them scrupulous. Fat cheques get written yet receipts elude her.

Dementia, all who hear this story mutter, nodding. Alzheimer’s. Everyone’s an expert, often at firsthand. Power of Attorney, they say. Guardianship. Carer. Nursing home. But where’s the dividing line between forgetfulness and disease? Memories of times in her youth when she felt pleasure fill this woman’s mind before she falls asleep at night. But over the last decade – more, counting the years she nursed her dying spouse – she’s known only loss: the deaths of her contemporaries; failing sight, hearing and strength; the decline of optimism and confidence. Meanwhile, the civilised world has gone digital. The actual social fabric, not just the social contract, has changed.

Younger generations have adapted, as we do, but our society has never been more ageist – an attitude that militates against awareness of history. And the loss of a historical frame of reference promotes ageism. If we can no longer be bothered to flex the muscles of memory, since it’s quicker to access facts and records via Google, why should we value slow-moving folk who could tell us how the world once was? What use are these living fossils if technology can meet all our needs: quickly and cleanly, without scary previews of our own obsolescence?

And the digital revolution is bringing obsolescence in other ways. Take traditional publishing: it’s a dinosaur in our DIY culture. Last month, an aspiring author pushing seventy sent me the link to his blog. I scrolled down it, idly clicking on the rare comments. One post had attracted a record of three, but the first was just spam (from Free Google Adwords, incidentally). What blogger hasn’t seen its ilk? ‘Pretty nice post […] and I’m hoping you write once more very soon.’ Instead of trashing or marking it ‘spam’, though, this naïf had replied. Some wannabes can’t resist a compliment, however robotic – not Google’s fault. But like all parasites, it’s adapted to colonise the gaps: physical or mental space uninhabited by awareness. Could this be humanity’s fatal flaw – our increasing vacancy? Because addiction to entertainment is mainly, if not only, what too much fiction feeds. If the plot is complex enough – say, a convoluted whodunit – it exercises the reader’s brain, not unlike a cryptic crossword. But most popular fantasy and romance infantilises readers, recycling tropes imprinted in childhood.

To dement means to ‘deprive of mind’; to drive one out of one’s mind, to make mindless. Emptied of contents. Discontented. That’s how the madness gets in. Do someone’s thinking for them and they don’t need to think for themselves. Puree their food for thought and they needn’t chew it. Spoon-feed the consumer. Smartphones etc. don’t make us smart any more than Google makes us stupid. The smart folk might be those corporate tools (including many best-selling authors) busy devising thrills and apps that keep the hordes distracted. The more ‘choices’ we believe we have, the more we conform to market logic. In our increasingly atomised society – nuclear families make better consumers – we’ve grown so attached to the notion of our individuality that we can’t see how uniformly predictable we’re becoming as corporate interests use us.

As one of Haruki Murakami’s characters says: ‘If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.’

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Writing from the margins

Dr C. Urchin

In his primer Astrologik (Vertical Pool, 1999), underground filmmaker and overall maverick Antero Alli argues against legitimising astrology. But not for the reasons you might expect. Astrology happens to be his profession. So it’s his peers who want to look more respectable, set a few standards. What could be wrong with that?

Let’s forget for a second that this is about astrology – a discipline dismissed by most ‘educated’ atheists, as if they’ve confused what they call belief in astrology with belief in God. (Religion’s age-old antagonism towards astrology seems to escape them.) The standard objection is that it’s unscientific.

Why, then, do I mention it? Well, Alli’s main concern is honesty. That his context is astrology is, for my purposes here, incidental. (Though if the topic interests you, I heartily recommend him.) The thing is, we live in a society (we in the West, an increasingly abstract location thanks to globalisation) where the truth (unlike crime on a corporate scale) doesn’t pay. And with the times a-changin’ – faster than when Alli made his case sixteen years ago – I dare say astrologers aren’t feeling any more secure.

But whether they crave more status, money, or just a more regular income, security symbolised in externals – assets, insurance – is illusory. And the more invested we are in illusions, the weaker our grasp of the truth. I use the word truth (so loaded, and much abused) somewhat loosely, to connote such qualities as emotional honesty. Not an absolute, Truth with a capital T, but openness to the moment in the opposite sense of opportunism – openness that admits immediacy, vulnerability and authenticity vs. repression, defensiveness and hidden terms and conditions; openness that dispenses with political correctness. My point is, Alli’s perspective applies not just to the art of astrology but to the arts and, in particular, literature. What happens, for example, when creative writing course graduates colonise the literary scene? Is this conducive to originality?

Most publishers and politicians aren’t so different at heart. Aiming to appeal to the mainstream, they follow sales rankings or polling, put fashion before quality or fishermen before sustainability – because our cultural climate has parallels in what’s left of the natural environment. Fail to protect the fish and rock lobsters that eat spiny sea urchins and the little critters overbreed – until swimmers have to be careful of where they put their feet. And in Oz, it’s getting that way with PhDs; they’re clustered wherever you look in the literary sea, bristling with scholarly research, comforting bourgeois values and PC morality. What could possibly be wrong with that?

There’s such a thing, though Alli doesn’t spell it out, as diversity – part of the logic of, say, setting up marine reserves (opposed by a government that cuts welfare and pays big polluters). If astrologers all become qualified – like the new breed of Oz author, who writes for similarly qualified readers (such as uni tutors), it’s a self-perpetuating loop – they end up catering only to clients who largely resemble themselves. And what’s lost is, for starters, perspective.

In Alli’s words:

What is meant by ‘oracular’ refers to the ageless archetype of the muse, a mythical and sometimes human figure who speaks and acts truthfully without any regard or consideration for social, economic or political consequences. For good reasons, a muse maintains a sociological posture at the fringe of any village or hub of mainstream values: the sage, the shaman, the witch, the crone.

If that archetype truly is ageless, it must have suffered an eclipse at this late stage in our present age of capitalism. Show me a consultant who can afford to tell the truth without any regard for the consequences. Tact is required if you rely on word of mouse to attract business. But I’m letting myself get distracted – Alli’s identifying an ideal, not an individual. He’s also defining the kind of astrology he practises. Perhaps he sounds slightly unschooled – like some sort of outsider? Hmm… I never used to think thoughts like that before I went to uni. Instead, I used to notice when people sounded pretentious and/or academic. Sometimes I still do. Which reminds me…

One of Astrologik’s reviewers, while also an admirer of Alli’s ‘creative and original writing’, frowns on his calling astrology a language: ‘Start with what linguists believe constitutes a language and then apply those criteria to astrology. Except he won’t, because astrology would fail to meet the criteria…’

Huh? A language isn’t defined only by what linguists believe. (And if mere belief underlies their criteria, what sets linguistics apart from religion?) Personally, I’m OK with the dictionary definition of ‘language’. Oh, wait – my dictionary offers more than one definition. Hmm – maybe that’s true of the field of linguistics, too. What would I know about language, though? I’m too busy using it; because, hey, for language to work – to make sense – takes practice, not just formal education. Yet, this confused-sounding reviewer objects to Alli’s illogicality:

Another primary flaw in hsi [sic] reasoning comes from his inconsistency between his statement that astrology is NOT a science, and therefore not subject to normal verification processes of science, and yet he uses it to make predictions.

So now I need a science degree to make valid guesses concerning the future? (Whatever happened to life experience?) That’s like saying the territory can’t exist without the map. (And don’t get me started on this amateur critic’s grammar.) It reminds me of a line from another of Alli’s books, Letters, Essays & Premonitions (Vigilantero Press, 1993): ‘I don’t believe in astrology but it works and that’s why I use it.’

And that reminds me of a well-known line from Jeanette Winterson’s second novel, The Passion (Bloomsbury, 1987): ‘I’m telling you stories. Trust me.’

Maybe she’s not the best example: a graduate of Oxford? But I think she’s kept the outsider perspective that stems from her hard-up working-class origins. And she didn’t stick around to do a doctorate.

As Alli’s reviewer demonstrates, it’s not rocket science, learning to keep your mind closed. But groundbreaking art and ideas tend to come from minds independent enough to stay open.

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Reading Between the Lines, or A Scanner Darkly


A sign beside the receptionist’s desk in an eye clinic reads:

Pensioners will be bulk-billed for any consultations only.

While waiting for my first appointment there, I asked the receptionist what the sign meant. Did bulk-billing apply only to consultations and not to extra procedures (like scans)? The receptionist said that, yes, pensioners would be bulk-billed – an imprecise answer. I tried rewording my question. She repeated herself. I tried again. She got crosser. ‘It’s a grammar problem,’ I finally said, and she glanced at me irritably. Presumably no other patients had found the syntax ambiguous.

Clear sight is prized in our society, so eye surgeons command fat fees. But clear communication is relatively worthless, with ever more writers working for free. What’s wrong with my eyesight? Well, most people who read a great deal – i.e., most people, in an ‘information society’ – will at some point find that misuse, such as constant reading, weakens the eyes. And most of us will then resort to glasses, contacts or laser surgery; the more serious the problem, the more advanced the technology. Few of us question this downhill progression, though worsening eyesight makes us dependent – initially on the judgement of narrowly focused experts.

My doctor recently sent me to an ophthalmologist because I said that writing (not reading) had been giving me headaches. And when I returned, alarmed, to ask her for another referral, she gave me a copy of the letter she’d received from the specialist. An abridged version follows:

Dear _____,

Thank you very much for your referral on _____. She has noticed some decrease in her night vision which is due to slight decrease in her accommodative strength. She does not have any cataract but I have advised her some pencil push up exercises and convergence exercises and that just might help her with her focusing slightly. […] Eventually she will most likely need some reading glasses and when the cataract develops she will need to have that removed.

At this stage she does not have a cataract so I will just get her to do the exercises initially.

I also noticed some very early optic nerve changes suggestive of very early glaucoma in the left eye […] and she needs some monitoring of that at this stage […] In the initial phase, there is nothing serious happening with her eyes which is good to know.

Kind Regards,

Dr _____ _______
_____, PhD (Cataract), _______ (____).

My first point of concern was his error re night vision. I’d mentioned doubling of images, more obvious at night (with the contrast of bright light against blackness), but it would appear he didn’t listen – due to some decrease in his hearing? Secondly, why three references to cataracts, though my eyes show no signs of any? What’s behind this premature fixation, this unbalanced bias? A PhD thesis, apparently – note his assumptions that (1) I’ll get cataracts, certain as death and taxes, and (2) I’ll bow to his authority and come back.

Why wouldn’t I? Well, he talked too fast for me to keep up in the 15 or so minutes he spared me, and never once mentioned my main symptom: headaches. But I wasted almost two hours in the waiting room. His practice hinged on a $100,000 scanner operated by an abstracted assistant fresh out of uni, with an irrelevant degree in molecular biology and the social skills of a robot. (She: ‘Have I given you drops yet?’ Me: ‘Not that I’ve noticed…’)

On the strength of one scan – he discarded two others after a minute’s scrutiny – the specialist diagnosed early glaucoma in my left eye and urged me to return in six weeks for monitoring – glaucoma can cause tunnel vision and eventual blindness. According to his handout explaining the need for regular scans, glaucoma ‘steals sight’: emotive language, that. My GP deleted him from her database when I described his style. (She used the word ‘factory’.)

Finally, in his letter to her, my condition sounds less serious. Did he hope to elicit my patronage through fear? Yet, why pay heaps for scans that only show whether I need invasive treatments, subject to interpretation by someone with dollar signs in his eyes, who doesn’t know what’s caused my ‘disease’, much less what I can do on my own to reverse, halt or even just slow its progress? (According to The Glaucoma Foundation, ‘[Imaging] software and technology are developing rapidly and show great promise. However, they have not yet evolved to replace ophthalmoscopy, where the doctor looks directly at the optic nerve.’) Such faith in an unproven machine mirrors publishers’ haste to churn out e-books. Hello, statistics. Goodbye, editing.

And so, two months later I sought a second opinion from someone more experienced, who pronounced my optic nerves healthy and my eye pressure normal. However, I needed reading glasses immediately. I voiced ambivalence. Oops. He grew fiercely insistent, scorning the idea of natural vision improvement and calling the famous if scientifically dubious Bates method ‘dangerous’. Why so defensive? Don’t most of us lack the discipline, patience and/or interest to explore the subtle complexities of our own eye–brain and eye–body connections? Clearly, there’s more than one kind of tunnel vision.

These ophthalmologists, for all their knowledge re what’s anatomically possible, don’t seem to be up to speed with current research suggesting that natural vision improvement works via the brain rather than the eyes. Which might account for the lack of scientifically documented successes pertaining to countless reports of eyesight improving through active and mindful use (vs. passive dependence on external lenses). The second expert I saw would, I’m sure, view such testifiers as deluded.

If he and his kind were books, they’d be the equivalent of traditional genre fiction: ubiquitously popular (even if mediocre, like the first expert); conducive, like most quick fixes, to habitual mental laziness; and above all, reassuringly predictable. As an aficionado of literary fiction, I’ll be seeking a third opinion.

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