All Things Change

Epiphany- an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure. www.m-w.com 

For years I relied on long monotone Sunday morning sermons to allow my brain to slip into my “epiphany dimension”. It was much like staring at one of those magic pictures that look like repetitious patterns but after long enough something like a flying unicorn appears as a 3D image. This was a special time for me where my brain had taught it self to slip “out of gear” and begin resolving the deeper issues of life that had been challenging me throughout the week. But now, due to an overly engaging Sunday fellowship, I no longer experience the Sunday morning epiphany. 

But all is not lost because I have a new epiphany “place”. At the front of our housing complex is a crosswalk that straddles six lanes of craziness. Even the introduction of two full-time crosswalk guards has failed to improve the safety of the crosswalk experience. So daily on my way to language class I allow around 50 or more crazed drivers take my life into there hands. I hypothesize that my scrambling to safety results in adrenalin surging through my veins which kicks my epiphany drive into action by the time I’ve reach the “other side”.  And before I realize it my latest issue is resolved.

Discovering a new EP (epiphany place- or for the more hippy type folk epiphany “space”) has been important for me. It’s almost as if it gives me a competitive edge as I’m able to solve the questions that might otherwise go unresolved.  

If you want a piece of this competitive edge maybe you can workout where your EP is. Drug inducement doesn’t count and is a health hazard… although so is crossing the road outside my house. 

It appears we were a little off with our due date. The results of our first ultra sound are that we’re now due 6th of August, 2008.

Just quietly I’m hoping for the baby to turn up on the 8th of August (08/08/08)… a very auspicious day.

But of course there are those out there who have questions. So the answers are:

Two pink lines= pregnant.

We’re due mid July 2008. So we’re only 6 or so weeks into it.

The bub (if all goes well) will probably be born in China like her or his older siblings.

Yes it is too early to tell the baby’s gender.

Jo wants a sister, Lachy wants a brother. We’ll take what we get, but if there is someone out there that can control the outcome then we’ll take a girl. 

In my travels I’ve had the privilege of visiting 23 countries around the world. Which has left me with stories that can bore the average listener quicker than a *caravan owner’s family vacation video. Although I do treasure all I have seen and experienced in my travels. Like being shot at while climbing Barcelona’s Montjuic, or pulling a drowning kid from the Russian River (in California), or introducing myself as the Dali Lama to some Tibetan teenagers, and the list goes on… I could bore you thoroughly with it but I’ll show mercy and self control.

My self constraint though is only limited to travel stories. So here’s a few things I’ve experienced since living in the North East, of the country in which I live, that are different to my western world and occasionally alarming. Like:

1 Someone carrying a full sized refrigerator strapped to the side of their bicycle.

2 Rafting a river on inflated sheep skins.

3 Playing basketball with the equivalent of the CIA and accidentally beating them.

4 Being close enough to have a conversation with a wrecking crane driver while he swung the wrecking ball into the seven story building only 15 meters away. It got a little hard at times to talk especially when the building fell down.

5 Watching an international stadium implode, from the comfort of a five star hotel.

6 Watching just about every landmark within a half kilometer radius be demolished and redeveloped.

Which leaves me with my current obsession… DEMOLITION.

I can’t help seeking out buildings, bridges, stadiums, and any standing structure made from steel and concrete to watch it fall. There’s explosions, bulldozers, wrecking balls, extendable chomping claws, crane sized jack hammers, workers with no hard hats, and a readily made viewing area. To be exact the viewing area is pretty much where ever you find yourself: in the post office watching the wrecking ball glide past the window; or as a member of the informal street party that quickly disbands when the dust from the falling building over comes us; or from the more refined comforts of a five star hotel executive floor.

If there were a support group for demolition addicts I would need to join. “Hi, my name’s Damian. It’s been two days since I watched my last FTS (fixed structure collapse)… to be honest there’s a little bit of me wishing this building would fall down right now.” And my support group would answer, “We hear you man, just to have a wrecking ball come flying through that wall would be something else… wouldn’t it? But we gotta fight that mannnn. Like, you know, it’s destructive…” Then we’d all cry and pound our fists at the air…

I don’t need help though. I’ll stop just as soon as the banks stop handing out money to developers.

* A caravan, for the “non” commonwealth readers is a largish box on wheels with windows (and a door) you can tow behind your family vehicle. It promises all the convenience of a real home but delivers the comfort of an airplane restroom. These are usually owned by retirees and/or the mis-guided. And watching them being destroyed by monster trucks IS fun.

Being a resident in China it’s difficult to avoid Olympic hype. I find “The Games” hard to reconcile with the things I believe are important in this world. But as to not alienate myself too much from the Olympic adoring world I will only state the following two points (which are inflammatory enough) and then move on to isolate a number of events that are easy targets to mock. 

“The Olympics are a self indulgent Romanesque event where we get to pretend the world is about the latest track suit fashion.” AG Duirs 

“The Olympics are a gathering of obsessive compulsive individuals who claim to be the best in the world, but actually live a highly unbalanced lifestyle at the expense of important social, psychological, and spiritual needs.” 

In the 2008 Olympics there will be 28 sports. Each of the 28 sports has multiple events adding up to 302 events in all. Bizarrely enough I’m writing this with 302 days to go before opening ceremony. Spooky…

Most sports have developed from a practical life skill. Like the person who runs fastest generally doesn’t get eaten by the tiger; or the person who throws the spear (javelin) the best gets to kill the tiger; and so it goes on… But every now and then a sport like shot put develops, or equestrian dressage (dancing horses).  

So below is a limited list of sports that I have collected. To be honest I would prefer them gone but they could be quite entertaining if they were combined. Try combining some and outline what they would look like and send it to “All Things Change” in a comment. Also feel free to add any sports you feel I have been remiss in not including.
1 Synchronized swimming
2 Butterfly (swimming)
3 Shot put
4 Walking
5 Discus
6 Triple jump
7 Equestrian dressage
8 Rhythmic gymnastics
9 Parallel bars 

A sport like shooting has far too many events and I find boxing and wrestling a little too violent, but they are fun if you combined them with some of the above events. 

Before each post I like to talk the topic through with someone else. You know, develop a stance and consider other perspectives on the issue.

So thanks to a heated debate with my three year son I am able to present this post refined and informed. Although helpful, he’s a touch distracting as I’m needing to occasionally pause to stop him from drawing on his arms and legs. Skin, the Three Year Old’s ever ready medium.

So the debate topic was Dora the (expletive) Explorer, or more precisely the much maligned character Swiper the fox. I am very aware that attacking children’s television characters like Barny, the Tele-tubbies, and Sesame Street Characters etc is passé. But the Dora the Expletive really gets me agitated.

She’s not like other friendly kid’s characters who model nice behaviour, she’s preachy. She takes everyone else on HER adventures so no one else gets to use their imagination. She’s the kind of kid that introduces herself by saying, “Hello mister, I’m Dora the Explorer. I’m going on an adventure. I’m going to choose which friends go with me. I’m really smart. I know everything. Do you want to be my friend because I’m really great! Yay!”

Dora controls the games, makes the rules, and thinks everyone likes her.

But worst of all by far is Dora’s prejudice attitude toward to Swiper the fox. Poor old Swiper is continually accused of being a thief. Even before Swiper enters the story Dora warns everyone that Swiper just wants to steal stuff. The reader or viewer has to say/yell out loud, “Swiper no swiping!”. What a missed opportunity, because she could have said, “Hey everyone lets be nice to Swiper so then we can be friends. I think he’s lonely and just wants to join in.”

A self centered, pushy bully. But of course when I suggest to my three year old that Dora’s not being very nice to Swiper he takes the side of the ever wonderful sources of truth… TV and Dora.

On the other side of what you read here is a little bit of, what I think is called, “Blog Management”. For the more widely read blogs I assume the “Blog Manager” has quite a bit to do: adding links, signing marketing deals, writing entries, and then vetting comments. This not being a blog of such renown means that I have very little to do other than check each day to make sure that I delete and spam label the latest Viagra update from a friendly chap or chappet named “Superza” from the new comments folder.

I’m yet to actually read one of Superza’s “comments”, mostly because the message is written in what appears to be German but also because the only word intelligible to an English reader is “Viagra”. I knew I shouldn’t have written about getting old!

I’m not planning on ever needing to use the attention tablet but if “a friend I know” needs some down the track I’ll be sure to get some. Most probably from a reputable pharmacy as apposed to someone called “Superza” or “Affordablefix”.

So here’s a quick note to all you spammers out there, “Thanks for making me feel valued by giving me something to manage on my Blog. But I really don’t want your pharmaceutical goods now or ever. Like I said “a friend I know” might, but I’ll get that from the local pharmacy. Thanks for thinking of me though I really appreciate it.”

Also I’ve decided to post pone my going senile because the health club I’ve started going to has the following factual statement plastered on its refreshment refrigerators, “Anti-senile healthy club”. I’m thinking if I hang out there more, it may stave off being entertained by a children’s puppet show in a smelly senior citizens housing complex, while someone a fifth of my age wipes my chin.

Don’t get me wrong though, puppets are funny… 

I’m 33 this year and I’m pretty much in denial about aging, along with a bunch of other things.

I will admit that my body isn’t fast, slim or flexible anymore which I guess places me in the early stages of coming to terms with it. In recent months I’ve tried to get fit by visiting the gym only to discover that I have an amazing ability to strain weird and wonderful parts of my anatomy. And when I stagger into a semblance of life each morning I’m grateful for the movement I have in my hips and shoulders because there’s nothing going on in the knees, elbows, neck or ankles, etc.

I’ve actually kept a pair of trousers that haven’t fit in seven years, but I hope to wear again one day. This either shows hope for the future or highlights the level of denial I’m dealing with.

I’m watching my kids grow and my friend’s marry/divorce, have kids, buy houses, get promotions, loose hair, get fat,… oh, it goes on and on…

EVERYONE IS GETTING OLDER!

Now my grandparents have passed away, queuing up my parents generation to be the next in line. So besides feeling a little depressed for having pulled my head out of the denial sand I had it firmly stuck in, I am wanting to make sure I do a few things right, before it’s all over.

The main thing that comes to mind at this stage is to not mess up my/our kids. When we had one kid I thought we were pretty much the perfect parents (“other parents could have learnt a thing or two from us”) and then came the second child to rock our little perfect parenting world. It’s been hard but I’m now willing to admit that we can’t make “The Perfect Child ™” and even if we could the kiddilliwid would most likely stuff it up them self.

It’s intriguing and sometimes quite sad to watch parents of adult children try to teach their grown child “a good hard lesson” when they stuff up. Unfortunately we (parents) have an idea of how life is supposed to go and we project in our minds the type of person our children should be when they’re grown. This leaves some folk pretty disappointed when their kids do “the wrong thing” and shatter the fairytale. “The wrong thing” is anything that makes us (parents) feel embarrassed and then in turn angry.

When our kids are grown I hope to take the opportunity to model support and friendship during the embarrassing times, but it’ll probably only work if my expectations are based on loving my kids without conditions and not on their conduct.

One condition I do have though is if I feel good about myself because I can fit back into the trousers I’ve been keeping. If I can’t then I guess I’ll take it out on my adult kids. I’m expecting to go senile anytime soon so the trousers will hopefully give me some focus.

I no longer live in a western world where personal space can be valued as a right. The words worship or idolatry sometimes aren’t strong enough to describe the attitude some western countries have towards personal space.

When we westerners sit there’s a “natural” perimeter we have. If you’re sitting now, stick your elbows straight out and that’s about the space you supposedly own. When we stand talking we should apply the *netball three feet rule. When we bump someone in the street we apologize. Knocking feet under the table results in the instant withdrawal of feet by both party A and party B. Accidentally touching someone with the front or back of your hand is followed by profuse and clumsy apologies to ensure the touchee understands that the toucher wasn’t groping them.

The great Australian dream has a front yard, double garage and a backyard that are all sacred to the owners, who are likely to feel violated if an “uninvited” breaks the boundaries. If the legal, yet invisible boundary isn’t working then a large obstructing wall/fence is built. Those who aren’t living the real dream and don’t have yards to protect them, then there’s the parking bay to war over.

Then the motor vehicle…

A few days ago a fully laden oncoming minibus swung onto the wrong side of the road and down my lane (or the lane I was in). I chose to flash the head lights vigorously and keep my hand on the horn. My intent was to let the driver know that I was indeed there and that if we collided it would be his fault. Call me chicken, but I then changed lanes and continued on.

If this happened some years before in the western world as my western self, my response would have been a little different. There would have been: involuntary and non-child appropriate language; the taking down of vehicle registration; pulling over and comforting the shaken passengers;  a call to the police; a possible call to a talk back radio to re-enforce the never ending cycle of stupid driver call-ins; and then a vow to avenge on behalf of all us “good” drivers.

So even when a driver makes a less than okay choice to drive the wrong way down a lane and break the law and put me and my passengers and his passengers at risk of harm, why is there no anger? I could have an issue with suppressing anger or I might have come to some understanding of the concept of “common space”. That is to say that our western sense of a personal space in which we “own” the area around us is pretty much a farce. Our concept of personal space creates a sense of security and control of self. So when our sense of security and/or our control of self is interrupted we feel violated. And our response is often outrage. When in reality we’re just getting a little glimpse at what a large section of the world’s population expects…

“MI CASA, SU CASA.” (For some reason clichés in another language are far more profound.)

*Netball is predominantly a women’s sport that Australia and New Zealand obsess over. Men are invited to play in mixed social teams and usually discover within themselves high doses of self loathing, spirit breaking apathy and sympathy for families of the middle age women who referee/manipulate the game. But it is a great game and all women are wonderful… 

If the title has led you to believe that this post is about pre-tribulation rapture theology, then I apologize profusely. And just in case you did want to read about the rapture take a look around… we’re all still here!

No. This post will look at being a “Trailing Spouse”, or “Trailer” as I prefer to be known. For all you folk not living the expatriate life: when a couple/family live and work abroad the wife may stay “at home” (i.e. work for no financial gain) and they are some times known as the “expat wife”. And the word work is used differently in this context because in developing countries there’s often the opportunity to employ house hold help so it can be more of home management than domestic work. A friend once said that if re-incarnation was real, then he hoped to come back as an expat wife… plenty of time for study, friends, coffee, shopping, massages, pedicures, travel, etc…

So in the expatriate situation what do you call the man when the wife works and the husband (or equivalent) manages the household for no financial gain? Well, you call him the gender free title of “Trailing Spouse” (a close cousin of the house husband). Besides following, straggling and causing drain as our title suggests we find our self-worth in places we never thought possible.

Our self worth is in responding to the cries of our young children telling us, “I need poo poo” or “I need wee wee” or “My doodle’s ouchy”.

Then of course there’s the stuff you get to teach your young children when the mother is out, like:
Guns are bad.
Thumbs up = good.
Thumbs down = bad.
Selected quotes from the Simpsons.
How to blame others when you belch.
How to massage dad’s back.
The finer points of wrestling.
Indoctrinate them with the idea that dad was an international superstar in just about everything.

We are a marginalized group, us “Male Trailers”. Our value is questioned and we are shunned by the expat wives… “It’s just not natural”, they murmur as we pass by. So there’s no invite to study, coffee, shop, massages, pedicures or travel.

But we’re content because we know that the havoc we secretly reek on the impressionable minds of young’ns will have a long term positive impact.

The world will one day not use guns to negotiate, but will use thumbs up or down to solve tricky international incidents. If that fails exchanges of Simpson quotes can be bantered around the room and someone could start some ventriloquistic belches to break the tension. Failing that a round of elderly decision makers being massaged while they watch the young power brokers wrestle should smooth thing over. And heaven forbid that not succeeding, then it’ll all come down to whose dad is better than your dad.

Or of course this could be avoided if the wives (and equivalents) were the primary money earners. This might normalize the male “trailing spouse” experience, then everyone might just be happy and there might be no need for negotiations.

But what’s the chances?