On the Beauty of Rubbish

Rubbish is beautiful. The things we leave in our bins reveal parts of our identity - our desires, our needs, our dislikes. The contents of our rubbish are a collage of our passing. Our rubbish is a record of our existence in the physical universe. Maybe that's why we have become so enamoured of the cycle of consumerism - desire, acquisition, use, disillusionment, renewed desire (for something else), discard - our consumption marks us as 'good', constantly renewed, and 'normal', while our regurgitation cleanses us of the 'bad' used materials. Very rarely do we fully digest something.
Our debris are little status tracks we leave in the sand, quickly blown over, but for those who witnessed, an insight. We become immortal, in our minds, through our rubbish, little piles like monuments. The tracks disappear (although Antiques Roadshow looks hard for them) but the possessions are our relics. We touched them, wore them, loved them (however briefly) and they will be forever imbued with 'us'.
But who actually believes that? Do you, when you are alone in the dark, breathe a sigh of relief borne of the knowledge, should small meteorite plunge through the atmosphere and punch a hole in your ceiling before ending your life as you lie in bed dreaming of that perfect side-table, that your jetsam will sing your song while being cast, like ashes in the wind, amongst the garbage tips and second-hand stores? And besides, when we throw things away they move from the sacred to the profane. We hate our rubbish. That's why we give it to the poor or to the earth, because we hate them too.
But aren't we missing something? Isn't there some great insight to be had, a compassion felt, or some sliver of the universe to be found in the rubbish tips, the second-hand stores, the dirty alleyways? Those places are libraries of our lives; here a bridesmaid's dress, cast off with bitter tears; there a little stereo, given freely after a Christmas bonus makes room for a new, bigger one; here a set of clothes too big now for the former owner (they jog everyday); there an Oxford Dictionary, the final evictee from the life of a boy once in love with words and now scrabbling for a teaspoon of smack. Such places are uncompromising and raw, and beautiful, so beautiful. Little editing has been done, and the usual sanitising we are subject too is gone. Every type of story is there, but they don't cry out "Here! Me! Look at me!" (like this blog does). The objects are mute, and their silence prompts curiosity - Who...? Why...? For a moment we ask, we step outside ourselves and ask, and that is why rubbish is beautiful.
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More Random Pictures

Time for some more pictures to fill in the time before leaving for Europe. A few people have complimented me on the last lot (being polite, no doubt). I think this set will convince you all that I have now surpassed the likes of Cartier-Bresson and Ansel Adams, amateurs that they were.

Exit. Korepun, Hunter Valley, 14/07/07. (18-55mm@55mm, ISO100, f9.0, shutter 1/320s)


Songlines. Palmer & Foley Streets, Darlinghurst, 19/07/07. (28-105mm@50mm, ISO100, f22, shutter 30s)


Tides of Eve. Korepun, Hunter Valley, 14/07/07. (18-55mm@53mm, ISO100, f9.0, shutter 1.6s)


And just for Jetti:
Stop. Yellow Kangaroo Paw (Anigozanthos flavidus), Korepun, Hunter Valley, 14/07/07. (18-55mm@55mm, ISO100, f5.6, shutter 1/320s)

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Royston George Booker

I am very, very happy to announce that I have been awarded the 2007 Royston George Booker Scholarship to assist with my field research for my PhD. As a bit of background, the scholarship was established by R.G. Booker, a retired Army Officer, in 1991 and is awarded to postgraduate (FT) students to undertake research overseas for their degree. While there are no specific outcomes required by the scholarship, I feel like I should honour the it and its benefactor for their generosity. Not only is it a great privilege to be doing a project like this, but to be recognised for my achievements and given assistance for it is truly humbling. For me, travelling the world to speak with people about their journeys is a dream come true. Many were the times during my last trip, to India, when I sat back and marvelled that what I was doing was at the same time 'work' and 'personal interest'. In fact, the project I am doing is exactly what I want to be doing, what I would want to do if I was doing something else, and what I would do if otherwise unoccupied. It is a great honour.

So, to R.G. Booker and family, and the University of Sydney, thank you. I shall do my best.
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Conferences and Conversations

The weekend before last saw me present my research findings from India at the Australian Association for the Study of Religions annual conference in Melbourne. Academic conferences are always fun, and a wintry Melbourne was an ideal setting for hearing about such diverse topics as teenage witches, media bias against UFO groups, the ordination of Buddhist nuns in Thailand, and the use of secular fiction as religious text (plus many more cool papers). If you're into all things religious a conference is a pretty cool way to get a taste for what's going on. It's much nicer than having to plough through everyone's journal publications (which you wouldn't read anyway because you don't have the time to read anything much outside your little niche).

I'm pretty happy with how my chapter is coming, even though I stumbled upon a massive structural shift while in Melbourne (that will require a re-write). The main thing I want to get across is the diversity of reasons with which people approach spiritual activities in India. I think it reflects the diversity we find in people's spirituality at home, which is essentially a 'moral' or metaphor I want to flesh out in the thesis. I tihnk the new structure will show this much more effectively.

Seeing as I was to be in Melbourne I decided to spend some time with my brother, Pip. Many long chats about life, the universe, and German monks drinking lots of Bock were had, and it helped remind me of the joy of family and the intimacy of siblings. You can't choose them, but love 'em or hate 'em your family know your story, and have a pretty good idea about what makes you tick. They know your history because they were there. They have seen the blood, the tears, and the warts and (if your are lucky, as I am) they don't care, they just love you. It is a devastatingly comforting knowledge. We can become so locked in our consumer hedonism, so lost in our cycles of dissatisfaction with life and self-absorbed whining that we can forget there are people out there who actually care enough to sit down and listen, no matter what is said. Those moments - by river banks, on mountain tops, at cafes, in cars - when simple, raw words are spoken and heard are magical. When it's family doing the listening you feel like your roots are getting a massage; all the gooey worms, moist soil, and gnarled fibres are being shaken and oxygenated. Those moments give you new life.

Finally, for any TZU fans out there here are a couple of exciting pictures:

Pip and Corey laying down a demo track for the next TZU album. Joel's studio, 11/07/07. (18-55mm@25mm, 0.3sec, f4.0, ISO800)



Lyrics aborning, from Pip to paper, through lips they're laid down. Joel's studio during a writing session, 11/07/07. (18-55mm@33mm, 1/13sec, f4.5, ISO1600)
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