Mick reads the familiar inky scrawl of his best customer on the back of the coaster, furrows his brow and wonders if he should try harder to have a decent conversation with Joe next time he comes into the pub.
Standing at his post behind the bar, he’d been watching the man in question get steadily drunk since mid-morning, but as usual, he couldn’t formulate the right words in his brain so instead just polished the bar with the familiar faded tea-towel; absent-mindedly rubbing a variety of native birds into a non-existent spill, staring off into the distance.
A good barman, he’d long ago perfected the casual, non-confrontational gaze of supervision which becomes second nature to men whose fighting days are fondly remembered, but gratefully behind them.
Sometimes Mick wonders why Joe bothers coming into the pub at all, but he’s happy that the man feels comfortable enough to quietly unknot himself with someone looking on. He just bobs gently in the corner of the pub like a buoy on waves. He never causes any trouble, never tries to drive home or jostle around the pool table like the younger blokes. He just sits by the big oak window frame, tracing the edge of the coaster for hours, draining glass after glass of its double-edged comfort. Lately he’d started leaving messages on the coasters. Little snippets of whatever. Mick wasn’t sure if he was supposed to read them or not, but he kept them. He wasn’t sure why.
Joe was a permanent fixture in the pub these days. His wife had been threatening to leave and take the kids for the last few years and one Monday she did just that; packed up the essentials and drove away in the second car while he was at work. It wasn’t that he was a bad man, he just drank too much and lost money on anything with four legs. People who’d lived in the town long enough knew that it wasn’t his fault, his father and his father before that had been exactly the same; but he’d married a city girl and their expectations are different, they want a shapeless something more. They don’t have the knack of forgiveness which can only come from a proper community; from people who have known you three generations or more before their birth or yours.
Mick puts the tea towel over his shoulder and walks out to the kitchen, where he plans on putting the coaster on top of the fridge. With the other ones. His shoes squeak on the old faded lino; the bug zapper up near the ceiling watches over the scene benevolently. Mick stops near the stainless steel island in the centre, runs a huge index finger down one side and looks down at the shelf with the WD40. It’s the only thing that provides a streak-free shine. He’s lost count of how many times he’s said that to the staff, and they never listen. He’s stopped nagging about it since Carla got morning sickness, the fumes are just too much for her. Thinking about Carla is dangerous territory. He’s probably old enough to be her father. She’d only been in the town and working at the pub for a couple of weeks when she’d skidded out of control and made a screeching wrong turn into the bed of the eldest Petersen boy and now she was trapped. He can see her future stretching out ahead. It’s as lonely and neglected as the road out, and he knows she’ll be on that road as soon as the kid can talk. It makes him feel sad and empty. He gets the image in his head of the old petrol bowsers that keep a paint-peeled sentry on the outskirts on town. ‘Enough of that’ he tells himself, as he looks around and takes stock of the kitchen.
The late afternoon sun streams in through the fly screen on the door, throwing a pattern of snowflake shaped shadows across the floor.
All at once he’s reminded of Tom, his only child, and how he used to cut up pieces of newspaper to make snowflakes. He used to get annoyed by the little geometric leftovers which would end up everywhere but now he misses Tom and is left wondering where the years go, just like every other parent.
Thinking of Tom moves his eyes towards the fridge, and the postcards secured with the colorful knobble of fridge magnets. Tom traded in newspaper snowflakes for real ones, and the door now doubles as a patchwork quilt of images from all over Europe. He walks towards it and places the coaster on top with the others.
———
How do you measure a day?
That’s the coaster message from Joe which plays on Mick’s mind the most. At first it had seemed smarmy, smug, reminded him of the silk tie from Tom in the back of his wardrobe. Unnecessarily fancy. It seemed like a trick question. Over the following week, he’d started thinking about it in sharper focus though. How thickly drawn is the line between the beginning and end? He quietly admits to himself that the last five years have felt like one long day. Carla the waitress arriving on the scene had been a surprise, so were his feelings for her, but the way thing unfolded after that had been anything but shocking. It doesn’t make sense for him to be so tired. Maybe there’s a special kind of tiredness which comes from getting exactly what you expect all the time.
———
Saturday. Joe’s seated in his regular spot watching the rain trickle down the inside of the window. A tv show about fishing babbles away quietly in the background. Mick wonders if Joe feels restless, literally rained in. He’s trying not to wonder about what the message on the coaster might be today. There’s the distant sound of a minor win on the pokies, a rush of coins which will end up straight back into the very machine currently being harvested. Mick hadn’t wanted the poker machines, had held out longer than most, but it the end it was clear that he only had two choices: watch all the business stream in through the door of the competition or make friends with the shiny bastards. It was horrible to see what a hold they could take on people. Old Joan had started coming nearly every day and he hadn’t said anything about it to her yet. It wasn’t as if any of them were kids you could waggle a finger at. Joan had been friends with his mother, had cheered him on at football when he was a teenager, had been gentle with him when he’d rung her daughter up at home and asked to take her out to dinner. It doesn’t matter how old you are when the adults of your childhood are looking at you. Whenever he talks to Joan, he becomes a kid again, feels naughty for serving her a shandy. He can’t shake the feeling that there should be an adult around to take care of the conversation for him. The conversations with her feel slippery, he can’t look her in the eyes for too long because he’s wondering if she’s thinking about his mother; the dementia, the fact that he probably doesn’t visit her enough in the nursing home. She always asks and he always hurries the reply, doesn’t know if he should acknowledge the fact that he knows she’s there at the home more often than him. Joan takes flowers. Mick takes his Mum chocolate she never eats.
Joe gets up slowly, drains the glass, signals a goodbye with his index finger and leaves. Mick walks over to where he was sitting and looks out the window, making sure Joe puts the hood of his jacket up against the rain. He realises in an instant that it’s silly and small to feel this protective. Joe’s completely fucked. What does it matter if his hair gets wet? He lets out a big sigh and picks up the coaster. Turning it over, he reads
Drowning.
———
Mick likes to fish every morning. After his wife left, it gave him something to do, an excuse to go to bed before eight in the evening, worn thin by twelve hours of sadness. In those days, he felt like the silhouette of himself, a big lumpy black shape.
They’d been over for years, living more like flat mates than husband and wife, agreeing without ever actually saying it that as soon as Tom was grown they’d call it quits. Then Tom grew and they called it quits.
He figured if he had to get up at four in the morning then everyone would understand the retiring to bed early. As it turned out, nobody asked for an explanation but having one felt good, spare change in the pocket. The routine of fishing felt safe. His hands knew what they were doing even when his mind was miles away.
Out on the boat was where he’d got the idea for the photos. He’d started to take pictures of the sunrise, each and every day.
He’d had one printed out for Carla for her birthday. He hadn’t prepared a speech or anything- not one that he planned on giving, anyway- and simply said;
“This was what the sunrise looked like on your twenty-first”.
She’d looked at him for a long time, but he turned and walked away before the softness and surprise could turn to pity. He didn’t need it.
———
Mick likes Joe and will look after him in all the ways he knows how for as long as it takes. He’ll watch and listen and make small repairs unnoticed. He’ll look out the window, watching for the familiar loping of a man he has known since childhood. Nobody will be saved or taught a lesson. The next time Joe walks into the bar, he’ll be greeted with the twitching smile of a tired barman who still smells of the morning salt air, and the sliding forward of ‘the usual’ on top of a coaster.
Unlike the other coasters, this one will already have something written on the back.
“No man is an island. PS. Pay your bloody tab you cheap bastard.”

Homesick….
(Source: rhubarbturmoil, via anoddgeography)
Definitely worth a read when you have the time…..this is all I want to say on the issue.
[The following is via thedailywhat]
More On Kony 2012: If this past week has taught us anything, it’s that people love — love — being aware of things. More than that, they love telling other people that they are aware of things. Most of all, however, people are absolutely, unconditionally, head over heels in lifelong love with other people liking the fact that they are aware of things.
But why do people love being aware of things as much as they do? In a 2008 blog post, Stuff White People Like attempted to get to the core of the Western world’s codependent relationship with awareness. By raising awareness, wrote Christian Lander, ”you get all the benefits of helping (self satisfaction, telling other people), but no need for difficult decisions or the ensuing criticism (how do you criticize awareness?).”
Of course, what makes awareness so alluring is precisely what makes it so pointless: It doesn’t — in and of itself — actually accomplish anything.
Awareness, beyond argument, is the first step towards fixing a problem. But, invariably, that shared endorphin boost people experience when banding together to rally around awareness for a cause wears off, and all that’s left is a bunch of people with no answers looking around for someone — anyone — to take the next step.
And then someone does. And we pat them on the back for their willingness to put in the elbow grease and leg work necessary to actually get something done. And we happily sign their petitions or open our wallets to them: After all, it’s the least we can do to help this selfless do-gooder advance our cause beyond awareness. And we send them on their way, content in the thought that, if we couldn’t spare the time, at least we could spare a few dollars and a signature.
But what if that person, or that organization, we just bankrolled doesn’t understand the problem or what needs to be done about it? What if, instead of helping, their actions end up hurting not only the people they claim to want to help, but also the people who are actually helping? And, perhaps most importantly, what if the people supposedly being helped don’t want help? Should it still be foisted upon them against their will?
Take KONY 2012 for example.
A lot has been said over the last several days about Invisible Children’s ultra-viral awareness campaign that targets infamous central African warlord Joseph Kony, and his 26-year-old rebel militia, the Lord’s Resistance Army.
IC’s finances have been called into question; their “emotional porn” approach toward awareness solicitation has been criticised as a “fund-raising stunt” which employs “blatant dishonesty” in an effort to perpetuate “myths” about Kony thereby achieving their stated goal of direct military intervention; the group’s leadership troika — seen above posing in 2008 with members of the then-child-soldier-recruiting Sudan People’s Liberation Army — has been referred to as self-promoting colonialists by the AP photographer who snapped the shot. But, through all the op-eds and the think pieces and the public polls, the only opinions worth heeding have remained largely invisible: Those of the people who are actually from there.
“[Invisible Children] are not known as a peace building organization and I do not think they have experience with peace building and conflict resolution methods,” wrote Anywar Ricky Richard, the director of the northern Ugandan organization Friends of Orphans, and a man who knows first-hand the horrors of the Lord’s Resistance Army, having been a former child soldier in its service. “I totally disagree with their approach of military action as a means to end this conflict.”
Ugandan-born activist TMS Ruge, co-founder of Project Diaspora, agrees wholeheartedly with Richard. Of KONY 2012 he says: “It is a slap in the face to so many of us who want to rise from the ashes of our tumultuous past and the noose of benevolent, paternalistic, aid-driven development memes.”
Indeed, in the rush to condescend to the central Africans who are “just not working hard enough” to get rid of Kony and his ilk and finally start improving their quality of life, what many overlook (or willfully ignore) is the already-visible progress that has been made thanks to the hard-earned grassroots efforts of central Africans themselves.
“Uganda was voted by Lonely Planet amongst the top destinations for 2012 but has this NGO just undone the potential for Uganda’s tourism?” asks Ida Horner, a Ugandan expat who remembers well a much harsher life under Idi Amin. “After all the tourism industry provides a real opportunity for Ugandans to work their way out of poverty through providing services that tourists want to consume.”
Nigerian-American novelist Teju Cole takes it a step further and slams what he calls the “White Savior Industrial Complex,” which cares little for the end, so long as it gets satisfaction from the means. “The white savior supports brutal policies in the morning, founds charities in the afternoon, and receives awards in the evening,” says Cole. “The White Savior Industrial Complex is not about justice. It is about having a big emotional experience that validates privilege.”
And all this before we’ve even touched on the dark heart of the matter: Joseph Kony.
Kony is, without a doubt, a despicable human being. His 25-year reign of terror has resulted in hundreds of deaths, thousands of abductions, and hundreds of thousands of displacements. But to suggest that Kony is anywhere near worthy of cheap, throwaway comparisons to such historical horror-mongers as Hitler is not only irresponsible, it might actually be what Kony wants.
IC’s video appears to suggest that Kony is currently in possession of over 30,000 child soldiers. According to the UN’s latest report, the LRA has “less than 500 combatants,” and was “dislodged” by Ugandan security forces in 2002 — meaning they are no longer there, and are unlikely to return.
Kony and the LRA are now but a horrible memory to many in northern Uganda who don’t need an Internet campaign to make Kony popular. They know all-too-well who he is and what he was once capable of, and are desperately trying — peacefully, through reconciliation — to move away from the shadows of their traumatic past.
“Now we have peace, people are back in their homes,” says Dr. Beatrice Mpora, who runs a community health organization in the rebels’ former northern Uganda stomping ground of Gulu. “They are planting their fields, they are starting their businesses. That is what people should help us with.”
That is not to say that Kony is entirely done away with; he is still able to menace remote areas in neighboring countries such as the Democratic Republic of the Congo and the Central African Republic — his last known hideout. But rather than an ascending fuhrer, Kony is an aging monster, thrashing about blindly in hopes of remaining relevant for a little while longer.
Sadly, it seems IC’s KONY 2012 campaign may end up doing exactly what it aims to do: Provide a spent villain with a second wind of infamy.
“Most madmen love the idea of fame,” says Marc DuBois of Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders), “so Joseph Kony’s wet dream just came true.” By focusing all available attention on a bygone bogeyman whose days are numbered, the IC may be unwittingly rejuvenating the perception of Kony as an intimidating and influential force with a wider reach than his true resources allow.
“Making Kony ‘famous’ could make him stronger,” says well-respected Ugandan blogger Javie Ssozi. And that strength puts a lot of people in danger, including both locals and aid workers such as DuBois and colleague Avril Benoît. “MSF teams in LRA-affected regions of DR Congo, Central African Republic & South Sudan are likely wary of retaliation risks,” said Benoît.
IC, with its support for direct military intervention in Uganda, may not care that Uganda’s own government considers it “totally misleading to suggest that the war is still in Uganda,” but Kony does. To him, KONY 2012 represents a rebirth — a chance to restore a stifling grip that has been slipping for years.
So say KONY 2012 succeeds. America plants even more bootprints on the ground, smokes Kony out of his cave, and turns him over to the International Criminal Court. A job well done and stogies all around. Now there’s just the small matter of the fact that nothing has actually changed, because KONY 2012 doesn’t do a lick to address any of the big-picture problems currently facing central Africa.
All it has succeeded in doing is propping up Uganda’s war-crimes-perpetrating military and its brutal, corrupt, human-rights-abusing dictatorship, and strengthening the alliance of four-term-president Yoweri Museveni with his US counterpart at a time when a foothold in Uganda would be extremely advantageous to American oil interests.
Meanwhile, actual problems in need of actual solutions are being rendered inaudible by the beating of war drums.
Gulu, the Ugandan town ravaged by the LRA in a previous life is now home to the highest numbers of child prostitutes in Uganda, according to Ugandan journalist Angelo Izama. It also has unacceptably high rates of HIV/AIDS and hepatitis, even when compared to the rest of Africa. And the real bane of Ugandan children — the mysterious “Nodding Disease,” which has killed scores and debilitated hundreds — is no closer to a cure.
“Last year I went to Gulu, Uganda, where Invisible Children is based, and interviewed over 50 locals,” writes Columbia University student Amber Ha in an open letter to IC’s Jason Russell. “Every single person questioned Invisible Children’s legitimacy and intention.”
Adam Branch, a human rights advocate who has worked for years in northern Uganda, elaborates on what precisely has given so many people in the area pause:
The warmongering, the self-indulgence, the commercialization, the reductive and one-sided story they tell, their portrayal of Africans as helpless children in need of rescue by white Americans, and the fact that civilians in Uganda and central Africa may have to pay a steep price in their own lives so that a lot of young Americans can feel good about themselves, and a few can make good money.
By now it should be abundantly clear that KONY 2012 doesn’t offer a single enduring solution to any of the problems it pretends to want to fix. At the very least, it makes things worse. At the very most, it makes things much worse.
But beyond the reasons why lies a simple truth: Lasting change — the kind that makes people’s lives truly better — doesn’t come from awareness, or even from doing something: It comes from doing what needs to be done. And knowing what that is requires paying attention, listening to the victims, and understanding the whole story.
You’ll notice that I haven’t once mentioned money. There is plenty to say about IC’s accountability and transparency (or lack thereof) and the way it goes about spending the piles of cash it is making off KONY 2012 — and piles of cash are definitely being made considering the ubiquitous ”sold out” heraldic standards that popped up almost instantaneously next to the all-important “awareness swag” IC is hawking in conjunction with the video campaign — but that discussion is mostly moot.
IC is not a charity in the true sense of the word. It is a private interest group that allocates the overwhelming majority of its budget (nearly 70% in 2011) toward travel, compensation, administration, fundraising, making movies, and lobbying celebrities and congress [pdf] to support its central aim: Direct foreign military intervention in Africa.
Whether or not that is what IC should be spending its money on is a question best left to IC. The real question that you should be asking yourself is whether or not that is what you should be spending your money on.
It should be well-evident by now that KONY 2012 is a poorly thought-out and oversimplified campaign with shortsighted objectives that are detrimental to every relevant cause except making money. More than that, it is a campaign that is unwelcome by local civilians, politicians, experts, and humanitarian aid workers.
Asked about the video’s glossing over major aspects of regional history and culture, IC co-founder, and the star of KONY 2012, Jason Russell told the New York Times, “No one wants a boring documentary on Africa. Maybe we have to make it pop, and we have to make it cool. We view ourself as the Pixar of human rights stories.”
That’s great, except Africa is not a feel-good animated feature for the whole family. It is a real place with real people who would suffer real consequences if KONY 2012 succeeded in convincing well-meaning individuals that all it needs for a happy ending is to catch the “bad guy” with the help of American soldiers.
Africans deserve better than to be treated like two-dimensional Wacom sketches by a group of sensationalist jet-setters who — by their own admission — oversimplify the issues to sell their cause (and their bracelets). The people of Africa — nay, the people of everywhere — deserve real, long-lasting solutions; not quick-fix half-remedies that look good on Facebook.
There are plenty of ways to help without trampling all over self-determination. There are good, honest, transparent not-for-profits based in Africa that have been working for years to promote self-sufficiency through education, health services, rehabilitation, democracy-building initiatives, and myriad other programs that have resulted in empowering change. These organizations help the people help themselves without condescension or remote imperatives.
But don’t take my word for it: Do the research. Find a cause you support and make sure it is what it says it is, and, more importantly, that it helps the people it claims to help. Invisible Children and KONY 2012 do not meet that criterion, and for that reason, above all other reasons presented here and elsewhere, it should not be allowed to speak on their behalf.
[photo: scarlettlion.]
(via karenabad)