(em)Power

There have been times, I confess, when I vainly feared that I was the only person who saw it - the misunderstanding, misappropriation and misapplication of power - but then reassurance and a vestigial hope has been granted by such as a letter to a popular magazine or a posting on a blog.

In Back Chat (Good Weekend letters to the editor, 27 October 2018), Jane Hosking of Tinonee, NSW wrote:

'Someone has finally called out what I call the "MBA curse"… the main problem in the working world today. People are employed solely because they have management training, based on an erroneous belief that if you are a trained manager, you can manage anything.'

Whilst on avc.com (13 February 2012), a guest post by well-known 'tech' blogger Joel Spolsky (edited for some brevity) observed:

'Most management is of the “command and control” variety. The CEO makes a decision, and tells his lieutenants. They convey this important decision to the teams, who execute on the CEO’s decision. It’s top-down management. All authority and power and decisions flow from the top. How could it work any other way? Turns out, it’s positively de-motivating to work for a company where your job is just to shut up and take orders. Thus, the upside-down pyramid. Stop thinking of the management team at the top of the organization. The “management team” isn’t the “decision making” team. It’s a support function. You may want to call them administration instead of management, which will keep them from getting too big for their britches.

Administrators aren’t supposed to make the hard decisions. They don’t know enough. Administrators exist to move the furniture around so that the people at the top of the tree can make the hard decisions. You don’t build a [business] with one big gigantic brain on the top, and a bunch of lesser brains obeying orders down below. You try to get everyone to have a gigantic brain in their area, and you provide a minimum amount of administrative support to keep them humming along. Attempting to see management as the ultimate decision makers demotivates the smart people in the organization who, without the authority to do what they know is right, will grow frustrated and leave. And if this happens, you won’t notice it, but you’ll be left with a bunch of yes-men, who don’t particularly care (or know) how things should work, and the company will only have one brain - the CEO’s.

It is not, as it turns out, necessary to be a micromanaging psychopath with narcissistic personality disorder (or even to pretend to be one) if you just hire smart people and give them real authority. That doesn’t mean lowering your standards. It doesn’t mean letting people do bad work. It means hiring smart people who get things done - and then getting the hell out of the way.'

What's most strange about both the above quoted 'revelations' is that we see them as such - new insights upon perplexing dilemmas - when in truth the knowledge has been with us for centuries if we only looked. Dreams of singular glory have repeatedly blinded many among us to the wisdom of our forebears.

From the east, verse sixty-six of the Tao Te Ching (trans. Jonathan Star), the foundation text of Daoist philosophy reads:

'Why do the hundred rivers

turn and rush toward the sea?

Because it naturally stays below them

He who wishes to rule over the people

must speak as if below them

He who wishes to lead the people

must walk as if behind them

So the Sage rules over the people

but he does not weigh them down

He leads the people

but does not block their way

The Sage stays low

so the world never tires of exalting him

He remains a servant

so the world never tires of making him its king'

And from the west, among the opening stanzas of Beowulf (trans. Seamus Heaney), one of the foundation works of poetry in English, we find:

'Beow's name was known through the north.

And a young prince must be prudent like that,

giving freely while his father lives

so that afterwards in age when fighting starts

steadfast companions will stand by him

and hold the line. Behaviour that's admired

is the path to power among people everywhere.'

Age-old advice indeed, yet here I am, certainly with no delusions of new-found wisdom or claims of original insight but none-the-less a sense of obligation, to raise popular awareness once more to the truth as to wherein our power actually lies.

Because in reality, as all these examples illuminate, if anything has more potential than power it is empowerment. Power over others requires the investment of energy to protect that power, however the empowering of others creates a unified body of equally enabled contributors who in combination have a strength far greater than any individual and which is not threatened by usurpation - all its energy investment is productive and not wasted upon protective measures.

But we're never going to see broadscale realisation of this simple truth, or better still, action to adopt its message as a standard modus, unless we start to teach it to our young from the earliest possible opportunity. As we all know, there is no better lesson than actual practice. It is pointless within an MBA course to preach bottom-up management within a top-down educational model. And tertiary level institutions are way too late to be commencing such an endeavour anyway. This is an undertaking that needs to be addressed from the first day of schooling.

However our current education model was 'Designed during the Industrial Revolution', as has been frequently observed in the past and restated most recently in Sharon Bradley's article Lessons in Learning (Good Weekend, 3 November 2018), 'It smacks of factory-process management: ringing bells tell students when to clock on and off and mark the times at which they must move from one stage of their manufacture to the next - 45 minutes of Algebra 1 in this room, 45 minutes of William Blake in that one; the periodic table over here; logarithms over there. Even the batch size, the class itself is determined not by the most obvious thing that a group of students might have in common, their ability, but by their own dates of manufacture - their birthdays … After 13 years of formal education, the batch has reached the end of the assembly line and, regardless of whether it has been well fabricated or not, is despatched into the outside world.'

Little wonder then that 'Australia's academic performance has gone into sharp decline.' She adds, 'Disengagement lies at the heart of the rot' with students who 'feel like a cog in a machine' reporting 'a poor sense of autonomy'. This is most certainly not empowerment. This is not how best we can prepare our young to be engaged and enthusiastic contributors to, and members of, a dynamic, supportive and genuinely powerful and empowered society and culture.

Thankfully, moves are afoot to at least attempt the beginnings of change within our schools but change of this sort, within a bureaucracy of such scale, is notoriously glacial. This is not however a task which should be left to our schools alone. This is a global challenge - but which can and should be tackled at every scale and at every opportunity. It is the undertaking for which the phrase 'think global, act local' may best have been coined.

Throughout history, the most powerful developments in human achievement and potential have been those that empowered the most people. Power over others, conquest, has consistently resulted in conflict; Empowering of others repeatedly engenders progress, leading to prosperity. If we don't, as a species, learn and learn quickly to work collaboratively and cooperatively - a globally unified and empowered force seeking betterment for all - we are doomed through our own vainglorious pursuits and deliberate ignorance to languish and flounder, taking down with us a broad diversity of dynamic environments and a veritable wealth of living species alongside whom we evolved over millennia past.

We need to decide now whether what we truly desire is the emptiness of power or the extraordinary richness of empowerment because, as Yuval Noah Harari concludes in Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind 'We have advanced from canoes to galleys to steamships to space shuttles - but nobody knows where we're going. We are more powerful than ever before, but have very little idea what to do with that all power. Worse still, humans seem to be more irresponsible than ever. Self-made gods with only the laws of physics to keep us company, we are accountable to no one. We are constantly wreaking havoc on our fellow animals and on the surrounding ecosystem, seeking little more than our own comfort and amusement, yet never finding satisfaction.

Is there anything more dangerous than dissatisfied and irresponsible gods who don't know what they want?'

Submission for New Philosopher Writers' Award XXI: Power

Twenty One

A brief speech I read at my nephew's surprise 21st birthday party.

Hey everyone, I've been asked to add a few words today from what I think is supposed to be the perspective of a sort of 'mentor' figure in his life and I figure I can either relate some witty and embarrassing stories from times past - but that's maybe what others will be doing? - or I can offer some advice going forward - some 'words of wisdom' perhaps? My problem with that is there's this great line in one of my favourite books which states that whilst knowledge can be communicated, wisdom can't - and that the wisdom a wise man tries to communicate always sounds foolish. But what the hell - why let that stop me? - it never has before! So on the wild assertion that I might just possibly be wise and if so, at the very real risk therefore of simply sounding foolish - here's a few things I have come to accept. My apologies in advance if it's all way too serious for a party!

First, a little perspective - On the scale of universal time and space, our entire existence is pretty much irrelevant and even on a global scale we humans don't fare much better - each just one among 7.5 billion. In fact the single most significant reason we are all even here today is little more than our insanely good fortune to be born into a time and a culture of extraordinary wealth and health. So don't get trapped in some stupid sense of entitlement when in reality it's mostly just dumb luck.

Second, some objectivity - Don't get too caught up in the modern obsession with the self. None of us exist in isolation. Take a step back. Try to see yourself as others do and work out who the best possible 'you' could be and then be that person with honesty and integrity and persistence to all the other people who are in your life - family, friends, acquaintances, colleagues, lovers, partners, children, and yeah, even strangers - that's a great way to truly be a person of significance and to live the most rewarding of lives.

Third, and (you'll be happy to hear) lastly, the importance of flexibility - The only thing we can ever know with absolute certainty about the future is that it will be different; so make plans but expect to let them change; take appropriate risks but learn from your mistakes; and most importantly, every undertaking you will ever make in your life begins - and ends - with where you are at that moment, so use every moment as you think best at that time and your journey through life will be rich with experience. Life isn't a dress rehearsal mate - enjoy your 21st birthday and all the days that follow - 'cause you only get 'em once!

Happy 21st birthday - I love you - look after yourself eh!

Beyond the Ends of the Rainbow

Life is just one damn thing after another*. This sentiment has been attributed to many people, though this exact rendering was published in The Philistine in 1909. It is of course equally applicable now, over one hundred years since that printing and indeed always had been up until that point in history. It is both very funny and very truthful - the former because of the latter - though I can’t help but feel that our amusement leads us to dismiss its potential lessons without further examination.

Looking a little closer, a good many of those damn things are situations or occurrences that demand a response, an action and frequently therefore - a choice. Which action do I take? Which choice do I make? More often than not, it seems our default position is to perceive our numerous choices to fall into a decision between 'this' or 'that'. Hunt or scavenge, fight or flee, the red or the blue pill? A recent meme born of an advertisement for packaged Mexican foods asked with incredulity 'Porque no los dos!?' - Why not have both!? but despite its apparent generosity, this suggestion still accepts the notion of only two possible components to our experience, even if they are both to be consumed in equal measure.

Importantly, this dualist approach to life extends well beyond choice-making. It is also perhaps our default position with respect to our perceptions and descriptions. As a species we are most comfortable when we feel we 'understand' a thing but unfortunately the extent of our understanding seldom surpasses the limits of naming and categorising. We feel that by the simple exercise of attributing a name to something or someone and metaphorically placing them into this or that box, or category, we have somehow achieved a modicum of understanding and indeed, control. At the most fundamental, most visceral, level this is evidenced by our eagerness to class all our fellow beings as 'one of us' or 'one of them' - the 'other' that we fear so much, due almost entirely to the simple fact that, truthfully, we know so little about them. Sadly however, having decided they are the other, we feel no obligation to understand them any further. Fear, contempt, hatred, ridicule - all need no further examination to be applied or illumination to be gained of anyone not in our elite, select few - not 'our kind'.

So how to see beyond this dilemma? How to step outside this lazy 'black' or 'white' and perceive all the possible intermediate shades of grey? Or, better still, actually examine black and white also in far greater detail, revealing that they are respectively comprised of the total absorption or the complete reflectance of every possible hue of colour in the visible spectrum? In short, how do we turn away from the monochrome and start to see the complete rainbow of possibility?

In 1996 Brian Eno published A Year With Swollen Appendices, his 'Diary' for the previous year. In addition to its daily record of activities and thoughts, copies of communiques and asterisked marginalia, it contains a comprehensive collection of essays, lectures, short stories and musings - the swollen appendices of its title and almost a third of the volume's total bulk. Among them is a relatively short but gloriously insightful piece entitled Axis Thinking, to which I repeatedly find myself returning for its remarkable clarity and potential. Perhaps it is in part his very 'visual' approach that particularly appeals to my designers' mind, but certainly his proposed 'model' for structuring our perceptions, considerations and communications has potential benefits well beyond simple descriptive use.

We are all familiar with scales of preference - for example, rating a product, service, desire from one to ten. This is an axis with two 'extremes' and a range of potential 'mixes' between them. This has a simple, horizontal, linear dimension. If we look at food as an example - it is after all a universal essential and relatively non-confrontational - we might have a linear preference scale for mild to spicy. We could all place ourselves at some point along such a scale. If we then wish to also describe our preference for heavy and rich or light and crisp foods we could add a vertical axis, thereby creating a two-dimensional 'graph' upon which to place our delight in a laksa, rich with chilli and coconut cream or a Thai beef salad, bright, fresh and crisp with just a tang of spice. Anyone with a different palate still has a place on the page, just perhaps not exactly the same location as ourselves. With each additional 'quality' we wish to measure - say meat-eating or vegetarian - we add a new axis, rapidly moving away from the possibility of a simple two-dimensional graph into a three-dimensional 'cartesian' space with x, y & z axes and then beyond that again into richly connected 'multi-axial' models. I find this easiest to imagine by picturing my personal preferences as a node - say a small rubber ball - pierced successively by a number of long skewers - each representing an axis between two possible alternatives. Some skewers will perhaps be equally protruding on both sides of the ball as I have a similar liking for both mild and spicy foods, but were I vegan, then obviously I'd be near the extreme end of that particular skewer, or axis.

If we now picture our small ball, our node, 'me', within a vast and complex multi-dimensional 'field' of cultural and personal dietary axes of preference, we can see that in fact everyone else on the planet similarly occupies a position within this rich arena of culinary possibility. Some might lie very close to ourselves, whilst other inhabit regions at the extremes of this potentially endless realm - enjoying offal, molecular gastronomy, paleo diets or such. Everyone is here. They are perhaps none of them precisely the same as me, yet they are all represented and equally so. This is no longer a world picture in which we can say it's 'us' or 'them' - two polar extremes - rather, we are all unique yet all united in our common occupation of this rich cosmos of variability. This is the magic of Axis Thinking - with all its potential complexity, it brings us all together to occupy the same 'universe' of possibility. No trait, no desire, no predilection, no genetic disposition, no race, no culture, no gender, no sexuality, no thing, nothing and no-one is excluded. We are all united in our occupation of this field of seemingly infinite possibilities. Plus we are all equally valuable, and potentially valued, for the power that our very diversity brings - someone occupies every conceivable position, everyone is uniquely qualified for their particular location.

Of course, as Eno points out, we must also recognise that the very axes themselves are not of finite length with fixed polar extremes. Much as the rainbow we see in the sky is representative of only a tiny, visible light, portion of the full extent of the electro-magnetic spectrum - stretching from the red end through increasingly long microwave and radio wavelengths, and at the violet end into the ever-decreasing wavelengths of ultraviolet, x-rays and gamma rays - so any and indeed all axes within our model of understanding are merely 'limited' in extent within any given moment by the extremes we understand or proscribe. As our cultures, knowledge and acceptance morph over time, so the 'occupied' portion of any axis may shrink, expand or simply slide along its continuum. Only after chillies were carried from the Americas in the fifteenth century did the European dietary axis expand into greater extremes of spiciness and only with more liberal attitudes slowly won after the decline of the stranglehold of religious doctrines did the duality of heterosexual or homosexual desire both expand and increase in complexity to include LGBTQIA+ (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer, Intersex, Asexual and more). Plus, we need to recognise that wholly new axes may at times appear - virtual sexual encounters employing digital avatars only became possible with the advent of the internet. Of course, as is explored magnificently in Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale, time, politics, fear and circumstance could easily reverse these particular trends and attempt to enforce an axis comprised of the singularity of conformist heterosexual behaviour - though an axis comprising a singular point is of course a logical impossibility. As has frequently been observed, the only constant is change, and change is undeniably inevitable given the unstoppable march of time. My hope is only that perhaps with the benefit of tools to aid our understanding, such as Axis Thinking, we can ensure that our journey through time moves principally toward the betterment, rather than the detriment, of our lives and the lives of all others of the same or different species with whom we share this impossibly fragile speck of rock in the seemingly infinite expanse of the universe.

Submission for New Philosopher Writers' Award XIX: Life

*1909 December, The Philistine: A Periodical of Protest, Edited by Elbert Hubbard, Volume 30, Number 1, (Untitled short item), Quote Page 32, Published by The Roycrofters, East Aurora, New York. (Google Books Full View)

Nothing Matters

As much as I believe we would all acknowledge the perhaps undue significance, within many global cultures, that is given to the individual possession of 'stuff' or 'things' - I feel that at times our singular pursuit of acquisition blinds us to an equally important recognition of the balancing role of empty space - an at least partial absence of material belongings in our homes and lives. Our vision is obscured by the wealth of paraphernalia with which we surround ourselves, rendering us blind to the true value of 'no stuff' or 'no things' - nothing. Because nothing, actually, matters.

I was saddened recently to read of the death of yet another of the creative souls whose works were influential in the early stages of my 'discovery' of a personal philosophy and character - my 'self'. Ursula K. Le Guin's writings, whilst sometimes dismissed - by the convenient human habit of 'labelling' or 'categorising' - as being nothing more than generic works of science fiction or children's literature, are in fact extraordinary examinations of the human condition and, as her obituary in the Washington Post noted, 'grappled with issues of gender inequality, racism and environmental destruction'.

Favourite and formative works for me are her Earthsea series - at one point considered a trilogy but ultimately encompassing five novels and eight short stories - which I too originally enjoyed principally as mere fiction, yet which always resonated at some deeper level of understanding. An oft-quoted passage from book three The Farthest Shore has the Archmage Ged addressing his companion Arren, 'Try to choose carefully, Arren, when the great choices must be made. When I was young, I had to choose between the life of being and the life of doing. And I leapt at the latter like a trout to a fly. But each deed you do, each act, binds you to itself and to its consequences, and makes you act again and yet again. Then very seldom do you come upon a space, a time like this, between act and act, when you may stop and simply be. Or wonder who, after all, you are.'

Only many years later did I recognise the Daoist sentiment in this dialogue. Browsing the Philosophy section in a bookshop for an approachable rendition of the Tao Te Ching, I chanced upon 'An English Version by Ursula K. Le Guin'. Her verse 11, The Uses of Not, reads:

Thirty spokes

meet in the hub.

Where the wheel isn't

is where it's useful.

Hollowed out,

clay makes a pot.

Where the pot's not

is where it's useful.

Cut doors and windows

to make a room.

Where the room isn't,

there's room for you.

So the profit in what is

is in the use of what isn't.

Her footnote explains: 'One of the things I love about Lao Tzu is he is so funny. He's explaining a profound and difficult truth here, one of those counter-intuitive truths that, when the mind can accept them, suddenly double the size of the universe. He goes about it with this deadpan simplicity, talking about pots.'

Both of these extracts address the notion of absence - nothingness. The first, an absence of activity - the creation of a space to simply be. The second, an absence of matter - the creation of a volume which can be filled or inhabited - or not! In truth, both passages are ultimately alluding not simply to these absences - but equally to their opposites. Hence Ursula's comment about 'doubl[ing] the size of the universe.' The well recognised Daoist two-part Taiji diagram, commonly referred to as the Yin-Yang symbol, clearly illustrates this central Daoist precept of the 'balance of opposites'. Originally alluding to the shady and sunny sides of a hill - which of course are constantly in flux and become their opposite every day - the symbol reminds us, and invites us to accept, that all things are constantly changing yet perpetually in, or seeking, balance.

This duality is evident in all we do, all we know, all we experience, all we value. All our senses relish the equalising balance of the 'intangible' other: Gazing into an infinite night-time sky from a rooftop above the hubbub of a major city, or a broad ocean vista from a balcony within a wall of soaring Gold Coast residential towers; a three-bar rest after the cacophony of an orchestral overture, or the perfectly timed pause before the punchline delivered by an accomplished comedian; the deliberately bland or neutral palate cleanser between courses of an exotic degustation, or the deep intake of cool, clean air after escaping the suffocating atmosphere of a poorly ventilated - or worse and more commonly, over-scented - public toilet; the freedom of nakedness after a day's confinement in restrictive clothing, or the upturned and empty palm of a hand in a Yoga-class Padmasana (Lotus Position) after hours of tapping at the keyboard of our office computer. The pinnacle, perhaps, of this desire to experience a more complete, all-encompassing 'absence' is provided by the current trend for Isolation or Float Tanks which aim to restore 'balance' to a participant rattled by contemporary urban life through Stimulus/Sensory Deprivation.

We recognise the value of 'nothing' also in the visual arts, and not simply its significant compositional value. We also imbue it with monetary value by outlaying vast sums for works by such as Mark Rothko or Barnett Newman that could be said to be largely comprised of little more than broad expanses of a single flat colour. Indeed, in 2014 an untitled 'all-white' 1961 work by American conceptualist painter Robert Ryman fetched $15 million at Sotheby's, New York. Our willingness to confer cultural or even metaphysical value to 'nothing' is perhaps exemplified by the much anticipated Roden Crater project in Northern Arizona by light and space artist James Turrell, which promises visitors, among other experiences, an unprecedented and consciousness-expanding view of an uninterrupted expanse of pure blue sky.

We also frequently find advice to possess less - to discover and value 'absence' - in diverse quotations from esteemed authors: 'With more quality in our lives perhaps we would crave less [quantity].' from Kevin McCloud's 43 Principles of Home; 'Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.' From William Morris's 1880 lecture, The Beauty of Life; 'It would seem that perfection is attained not when no more can be added, but when no more can be removed.' from Antoine de Saint-Exupery's, Terres des Hommes (Published in English as Wind, Sand and Stars); and perhaps unsurprisingly from a Japanese observer, the ultimate in appreciation of the almost imperceptible 'If light is scarce then light is scarce; we will immerse ourselves in the darkness and there discover its own particular beauty.' from Jun'Ichiro Tanizaki's, In Praise of Shadows.

But do we listen? It is currently very fashionable within our 'greed is good' consumerist mindset - seemingly undiminished since the 1980s despite repeated global financial 'warnings' - to dismiss the well-known designers' credo of 'less is more' as minimalist, modernist nonsense. We judge ourselves and our contemporaries almost solely on our apparent mutual abundance of assets. We fill our homes to bursting with belongings, collectibles and equipment; effects, goods and chattels. Then when there's little room to move, we place it all into store and fill the void once more with fresh acquisitions. But with every new purchase our environments become more thickly crowded with stuff whilst our attention is spread ever more thinly, with a lesser and lesser portion of our available emotional quotient to delight in its presence in our lives, plus a proportionally diminishing likelihood of ever encountering that oh-so ephemeral, yet oh-so longed for, moment of peace and solitude we physically, mentally and spiritually crave.

But by seeking to bask in admiration at our ostentatious display of wealth, we actually make ourselves the poorer - not just financially, but also poor of quality time, poor of physical space, poor of calm and serenity in our daily lives, when with just a slight inversion of our thinking, a little less haste to fill every nook and cranny with material clutter - and a great deal less monetary expenditure - we could discover the genuine richness of existence that we truly desire. Perhaps Matsuo Basho, the seventeenth-century itinerant Japanese poet expressed this sentiment most clearly in an essay he wrote in the year prior to his death, when he stated ' My solitude shall be my company, and my poverty my wealth.'

So less really is more - because it allows us to glimpse the richness that lies beyond immediate and distracting materiality. And nothing at all? Well nothing, as we've seen, truly matters.

Finalist for New Philosopher Writers' Award XVIII: Stuff

Words of Wisdom

In the concluding chapter of Herman Hesse's Siddhartha, the ageing titular character speaks with his boyhood companion Govinda. 'Wisdom is not communicable. The wisdom which a wise man tries to communicate always sounds foolish,' he says, 'Knowledge can be communicated, but not wisdom. One can find it, be fortified by it, do wonders through it, but one cannot communicate and teach it.'

Even knowledge itself now presents some challenges. As Yuval Noah Harari discusses in Sapiens, the premodern traditions of knowledge such as Islam, Christianity, Buddhism and Confucianism asserted that everything important to know about the world was already known and revealed to us in scriptures. Ordinary mortals gained knowledge by delving into and understanding them properly. But the Scientific Revolution changed all that - it was a revolution of ignorance. Its great discovery was that humans do not know the answers to their most important questions, and that no concept, idea or theory is sacred and beyond challenge. So if our knowledge is flawed, what hope our search for wisdom? And to what extent do our existing means of communication influence or limit our understanding or potential? Is our desire for wisdom - surely our species' ultimate quest - constrained by our lack of the right tools?

Throughout my life I have encountered a multitude of communication tools, though I speak only one language, my native English - a vast, complex, nuanced and ever-growing language. According to Simon Winchester's The Meaning of Everything, on completion of the first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary in 1928, it catalogued 414,825 words which were reckoned to be all that were then known to comprise its lexis. By the release of the 1989 second edition this had grown to 615,100 words and work is underway on what is currently being called the Revised Edition - no-one is certain when it will be finished and it may include a million words. But, rich and seemingly comprehensive though the English language may be, there exist many experiences or conceptions we wish to capture or express for which it is singularly unsuited.

When I was young, my father worked for a furniture manufacturer and would sometimes bring home rolls of dyeline architectural drawings so we kids could use the rear white expanses as doodling paper. Perhaps that influenced my choice of Technical Drawing as a subject in high school and eventual career in design? Potentially it sowed the seed for my current facility with visualising environments drawn in orthographic projection - plan, elevation, etc. - that we are familiar with through real estate ads and building applications. Indeed, despite the diversity of alternative communication tools now available to spatial designers, from perspective drawings or constructed models through to digitally rendered virtual walk-throughs, to this day I prefer a two-dimensional plan, not simply to read its lines and symbols but to mentally immerse myself within its depicted volumes and forms. My skill with this quite specialised drawn language had served me well, so I never thought to question its enduring relevance.

Somewhat less successfully, also while still a child, I was introduced to another written language - that of modern music notation. Through lessons in piano, flute, music theory and singing I came to recognise the aural possibilities hidden within the tracery of dots and strokes arrayed on the bass and treble staves of sheet music. But mine was never more than a middling musical talent - I knew only that a note of such shape and location meant a particular key on the piano or fingering on the flute, for a duration of so many beats. I was little more advanced than those who play via colour-coded keys or who remember the melody of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star by counting 1-1-5-5-6-6-5, 4-4-3-3-2-2-1, as I never heard the music until I played the notes. Years later I shared a house with a talented multi-instrumentalist and composer, and recall the day I found him sitting in silence at the kitchen table with pen and paper. 'Writing a letter?' I asked. 'Composing a score,' he replied, 'but it doesn't sound quite right as yet.' It had never even occurred to me as a possibility - as I was able to inhabit a drawn room, he was able to hear a written score. Here was someone truly conversant in a language with which I was clearly a mere novice.

Then, in my late twenties, I worked briefly with a dance school and was tasked with building a two-and-a-half metre diameter open-framework icosahedron - a regular polyhedron comprised of twenty equilateral triangles. The students had been set the challenge of recreating Passacaglia, a 1938 work by choreographer Doris Humphrey which had subsequently been rendered into a graphic language called Labanotation. Through standing within the icosahedron and aligning their torso, head and limbs with particular facets or vertices, the students were able to decode and physically enact the notation, thereby learning the dance's movements. The eventual performance was truly magnificent and yet again it was a revelation to me that such a language even existed.

Ludwig Wittgenstein, in Tractatus Logico - Philosophicus, famously observed 'The limits of my language are the limits of my world.' Despite their revelatory appearance in my life, all the languages discussed above, each with remarkable capabilities to capture and communicate, are however simultaneously laden with potential shortcomings, possibly even imposing limitations on the fields of endeavour they aim to assist. There are, admittedly, other dance notations but Labanotation seems perhaps poorly suited to capture the rippling liquid movements or robotic pops and freezes of hip-hop dance. Music notation has been with us now for many hundreds of years, yet in 1978 Brian Eno clearly felt it inadequate to capture the essence of his seminal album Ambient #1: Music for Airports. He therefore devised, and printed on the LP sleeve, differing graphic renderings for each of its four ethereal, minimalist compositions. Plus, in the field of architecture, many of Frank Gehry's buildings, such as the landmark Guggenheim Museum Bilbao, were only possible due to significant advances in the computer languages of architectural software - dramatically removed from the drafting skills I learnt in my teens and leading William Mitchell to observe in Frank Gehry, Architect by J. Fiona Ragheb, and echoing maybe Wittgenstein's statement above, 'Architects tend to draw what they can build and build what they can draw.'

It is true that spoken languages other than our own, born of different cultures, have produced words to describe objects, that express concepts, or which capture feelings that did not previously form a part of our relatable experience due solely to their absence from our own vocabulary. Yet a great part of the very richness of the English language is its willingness to adopt such words from other tongues whenever they best serve the purpose, hence schmooze from Yiddish, faux pas from French and schadenfreude from German. Or, on a slightly more positive note, the melancholic beauty of imperfection and impermanence which can only truly be captured by the Japanese wabi-sabi.

Equally, there are many who have addressed perceived shortfalls in the English language via alternative means, not least Ray Bradbury in Dandelion Wine, his reminiscence of childhood in small-town America. He revels in unexpected metaphors such as, 'The grass whispered under his body.' And, 'Insects shocked the air with electric clearness.' Or Allen Ginsberg's grammatical abandon in Howl with, 'Jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes.' But, irrespective of the multitude of words already at our disposal or those we may yet coin anew - irrespective of our facility with grammar and how we might write or type within its plastic forgiveness - irrespective of the diversity of humanity's cultures and their perpetual r/evolutions - irrespective of our global desire to move beyond information, beyond knowledge, to truly seek and find wisdom - we seem strangely locked in a cycle of repeated errors or at best a stumbling two steps forward and one step back.

Just maybe our true fault - our greatest ignorance and the concept we most need to challenge - is our current acceptance of the languages we use in our search for wisdom? Just maybe Siddhartha was wrong? Maybe wisdom, once sought and found, can indeed be communicated, but in a language as yet unknown? I don't know its shape or sound or if it is indeed either written or spoken. Does it exist in colour or aroma - is it tactile or otherwise felt as pure emotion? But whatever form or tone, hue or scent, texture or sensation - find and learn it we must, and soon. A language rich with terms entirely different from those of our troubled past, coined for the urgent needs of our yet turbulent present and which can guide us toward conceiving and realising a positive collective future. Together, we must craft these words of wisdom.

Submission for New Philosopher Writers' Award XVII: Communication

The Shared Table

The shared table – it’s a powerful image, a symbolic motif, which exists in many cultures and has persisted through time. It speaks of welcome, generosity, camaraderie, peace and plenty – a veritable wealth of ‘feel good’ qualities. Depicted in paintings (Bruegel’s ‘The Peasant Wedding’ or Renoir’s ‘Luncheon of the Boating Party’), or described in meticulous detail (who can forget ‘An Unexpected Party’ that opens the narrative of Tolkein’s ‘The Hobbit’?), even celebrated as an exemplar of community building through the current trend for ‘long table’ events to reunite disparate, though neighbouring, resident groups and reinvigorate urban streetscapes – increasingly abandoned in this era of online shopping and virtual social interaction.

But where, in truth, does the power of this image reside? Is it in the table itself (an inanimate, utilitarian item of furniture); or the assembled company of family and friends (or foes); or is it perhaps in the arrayed food and drink (especially the drink!); the particular environs (a private home, a village longhouse, a city laneway, an outback campfire); the overlapping, interwoven or contradictory topics of conversation (or argument); or perhaps all of these and more, in combination – the whole being far greater than the sum of its parts? Maybe it is the very notion of ‘the shared table’; the idea itself, particularly in the afterglow of a full stomach and an alcohol hazed mind or the special, elevated glory of reminiscence?

Surely the mere table seems barely worthy of serious consideration? In 1963 my family arrived in Australia as ‘Ten Pound Poms’ under a government immigration scheme. After a short interval in a hostel and some rental properties we moved into our newly constructed project home in the suburbs and the very first item of furniture my father made was a simple, small, circular, Formica-covered, kitchen-come-dining table. For the ensuing fifteen-plus years the vast majority of our family meals (breakfast, lunch and dinner) were consumed around this unremarkable creation. Initially we sat upon some of the upturned plywood tea-chests that had carried our worldly goods on the ship from England. These were replaced in time with a vinyl-upholstered banquette and three of the ubiquitous 1960s, mustard-coloured plastic Sebel stacking chairs. The food was common fare – Corn Flakes or Weet Bix breakfasts, sandwich or soup lunches, meat and three veg or Friday treats of take-away fish and chips for dinner – but always eaten together and pretty much always accompanied by chat, banter, discussion, debate, questions, answers, laughter or perhaps even occasional tears? Still, nothing remarkable, just a stereotypical mid-century picture of nuclear family ‘normality’.

So should we look next at the gathered diners? In a world which has increasingly embraced the notion of the supremacy and inviolate sanctity of the individual, it is only too easy to lose sight of the simple reality that we all, the entire human species, owe the greater part of our success (if indeed our current global predicaments can be classed as success?) to collaborative and cooperative behaviours. Is it this union of effort that we unwittingly evoke on those occasions we come together to dine? A raising of glasses and tearing of loaves to celebrate our combined, continued survival in ever-changing circumstances? WS Gilbert (of Gilbert and Sullivan fame) is oft quoted as uttering ‘it isn’t so much what’s on the table that matters, as what’s on the chairs’, though it remains unclear if his praise is for the individuals or the group. A less generous observer, with a Darwinian bent, would suggest we are simply happy if the company is comprised at least in part of one or more of our subsequent generations – children and grandchildren successfully carrying our genetic makeup into an unknown future.

Moving on to the, hopefully, bounteous feast piled upon platters and spilling from jugs (and therefore disregarding Gilbert’s contemptuous dismissal of the victuals as contributing true significance), any contemporary observer would be forgiven for thinking we seem currently to have a preoccupation with food bordering on obsession. Our popular media (be it film, television, books, newspapers and periodicals, or the truly immense online universe of blogs, archives or ‘foodie’ sharing sites) is full to bursting with recipes, reviews, recommendations and constant reminders that delicious food can be delivered to our door in minutes at the mere tap of an icon. Certainly, a delectable offering can provide its own myriad delights but for many of my personal recollections of joyous occasions around a laden table, the food has been relatively plain fare – simple sausages and salads, beer and bread. These are not the kind of dishes one imagines would elevate the repast, imbuing it with beneficent significance or indelibly imprinting a memory.

So perhaps we should consider the environs? Foundational to Maslow’s hierarchy of human needs are both food and shelter, so clearly a conducive environment, a welcoming space, can contribute significantly to our comfort and happiness. But is it the critical element that converts simple consumption and chat into community and human flourishing – the ‘eudaimonia’ of the ancient Greeks? That we still recall with fondness, gatherings hampered by such as the draughtiness of a large wedding reception marquee; the relentless burning sun of a summer afternoon’s beach-side barbecue; the assault of sound within a busy trattoria or the too-small-to-swing-a-cat confines of a share-house eat-in kitchen, suggests that we can overlook most inconveniences in the right circumstances. So pleasant environs seem perhaps more desirable, than critical?

Which finally brings us to examine the conversation. David Greenberger proposes (Smith Journal, Volume 12) ‘the purpose of most conversation is to allow two people to be in the same place and time together’ which suggests that discussion is merely the glue for the assembled company. A proposition reinforced by Roman Krznaric’s observations (The Wonderbox) that conversation ‘is the unseen thread that binds [communities] together and it is time we took it more seriously.’ It is ‘a dialogue that creates mutual understanding’ and ‘has the potential … to inspire new ways of thinking and living together.’ Heady and, yes, empowering stuff but permission, binding, dialogue, and inspiration do not exist in glorious isolation but act as agents upon the participants. Participants, no less, that are relieved from immediate concerns of hunger and whose minds and tongues are relaxed perhaps with alcohol. So then maybe it is indeed the aggregate of diners, feast, comfort and conversation that creates the magic?

But here’s the thing – being in the kitchen, the centre of the home, our family table was also utilised for so many other activities; communal stirrings of the Christmas puddings; cranking the spirit-printer handle for each year’s ‘Newsletter’ to relatives in England; sitting reading with head enshrouded by the plastic bonnet of the Sunbeam hairdryer. Also, I was not a particularly voracious eater as a child and my parents insisted that our plates be scraped clean before we might leave the dinner table. Many an evening I waited, pushing the food dispiritedly around the plate until all the other family members had grown weary of my tardiness and departed to other activities (homework perhaps or the lure of the television) –  only then to move, quietly and unobserved, to open the cupboard under the kitchen sink and deposit any unwanted morsels in the bin. So the table had, for me, both positive and negative associations.

And then, just yesterday, my mother decided that after over fifty years of continued daily use, she no longer had need of this table in her recently acquired, retirement village, one-bedroom apartment. ‘Could you please take it away and either sell it for cash or donate it to charity?’ Could I? In truth, I could not. I dismantled and removed it but, despite having no immediate use for it at all and little space to store it, I have it stashed in a corner of the garage – awaiting who knows what future fate? To simply dispose of it seems somehow a betrayal or denial of all that has occurred upon and around its silent surface.

Because you see, a table is an anchor; a point of insensate stability around which all the other elements, participants and activities can find calm waters and a secure mooring. It is the enabler; it carries the trenchers of food and forgives the spills of liquor; it places the diners in visual, verbal and physical proximity whilst providing a rest for their elbows (or foreheads!); it proudly proclaims the purpose of the space it occupies, be it small suburban room, grand municipal hall or the infinite besparkled dome of the heavens; it passes no judgement on all that might be said – good or bad, calm or heated, reflective or inspirational; it is the facilitator of all that occurs in its small realm of influence. The table, in essence, embodies the very notion of sharing. It is the idea. For all its apparent simplicity, we should respect and celebrate its power and significance in our lives. I propose a toast – ‘To the shared table!’

Finalist for New Philosopher Writers’ Award XVI: Food

True Time Travel

I have a time machine. It’s a true joy to possess and I daily delight in the extraordinary wonders it allows me to experience. I suspect it would be judged by some as less stylish than Marty McFly’s gullwing-doored DeLorean, or less beautiful than HG Wells’ time traveller’s machine of nickel, ivory and crystal but it is perhaps somewhat easier to maintain and pilot than either of those. But before I go into detail on its composition and the glories its possession has revealed, maybe I should tell you a little about myself and my more prosaic adventures in the quotidian world?

I have spent the greater part of my half-century and more of life fascinated by, learning about, practicing and teaching the discipline of design. Specifically, the branch of design concerned with conceiving and configuring human environments: domestic interiors, theatre stages, cultural exhibitions, exterior landscapes and such. Creating spaces if you like, and space, as any schoolchild learns, we describe in terms of the three dimensions of width, height and depth.

In the simplest terms, to design a room, the measure of its width, height and depth are determined by the placement of floor, walls and ceiling. Any moderately competent designer can select dimensions for these which would result in a ‘well proportioned’ room but it was Paul Jaques Grillo, in his book Form, Function & Design, who first made me aware of the invaluable importance of another consideration, sometimes overlooked, which is essential to embrace if we wish to truly design for people. He states, ‘No design is done strictly to be looked at. It has to be lived with, and there is no life without motion.’ He is speaking of course about our movement within such built environments; our travel through the three spatial dimensions – entering a wide front door, walking the length of a hall, climbing to the highest stair. However, it was due to my prolonged pondering upon this statement that I was made forcibly aware of another movement inherent in all this spatial activity, but which is frequently unseen or disregarded, and this is our concurrent travel through time – the fourth, temporal, dimension.

In physics, they speak of a mathematical model wherein space and time are combined into a single idea, the space-time continuum, comprised of these four dimensions, but what is perhaps not commonly observed is the curious nature of our travel through these dimensions. For whilst we can move, or not, more or less at will through each of the three spatial dimensions in isolation – forward or back, but not up or down; side to side, or remaining still – none of them are possible without, and indeed we can never halt, our also travelling through time.

We think and speak of time’s inexorable progress with terms that draw attention to change – the passing of the hours, the cycle of the seasons, the aging of our bodies – and it is this very notion of change which I believe lies at the heart of true time travel. Change, it has frequently been ironically observed, is the only constant – all else is in flux – but it is this very quality, it’s all-pervasive constancy, which makes it so very suitable a force to empower time travel. My time machine thrives on the ceaseless inevitability of change. For my time machine is me, my body and my mind. It is from within this imperfect body and with a curious mind that I take very real pleasure in quietly observing the hourly, daily or yearly evidences of change. Is this, my revelation, perhaps an anti-climax? I hope not, for change, whilst frequently seen as being a negative force, I believe can be pregnant with promise; I believe that to truly witness and accept change can be both joyous and enriching. Indeed I believe that it is only through truly embracing change, rather than struggling forever against it, that we all are able to genuinely delight in our journeys through life.

I am not of course the first to make this observation or come to this conclusion, and I make no claims of independent discovery. Many and wiser souls have preceded me and for their insights I am indeed indebted. And their secret, if such it can be called when it is wholly on display, though perhaps seldom recognised, is the seemingly simple act of assuming stillness in the three spatial dimensions. As delightful as movement can be, it all too easily promotes an overload of perceptual stimuli – sights, sounds, smells, constantly assault our senses – and we come to associate our comprehension of the changing environment with our spatial movement alone. Our simultaneous movement through time – signposted with changes perhaps more subtle, yet equally laden with the potential for delight – can become reduced to the point of imperceptibility.

Stillness is essential for the true wonders of change to reveal themselves, for temporal travel to assume its perhaps superior position to that of mere spatial travel. As Henry David Thoreau observed in Walden, ‘It is a soothing employment, on one of those fine days in the fall when all the warmth of the sun is fully appreciated, to sit on a stump on such a height as this, overlooking the pond, and study the dimpling circles which are incessantly inscribed on its otherwise invisible surface amid the reflected skies and trees.’ And Pico Iyer, in The Art of Stillness, suggests ‘Going nowhere … isn’t about turning your back on the world; it’s about stepping away now and then so that you can see the world more clearly and love it more deeply.’ Being still; being in the moment; it is this which enhances our awareness of the passage of time, and which likewise permits a joyous embracing of the changes which such passing engenders – watching with pride as our children grow and mature; observing the wonder of seeds planted in our gardens producing plants laden with beautiful flowers and bountiful fruits; or even those changes which occur on a somewhat more grand timescale, such as an occasional fall of rock from an eroding coastal cliff or the changing course of a small stream - prompted by a period of prolonged rainfall.

To fully immerse oneself in the present permits a serenity and freedom all to infrequently encountered in our modern ‘constantly-connected’ world. We seem to be overly prone to falling prey to concerns about our future or regrets about our past – both of which in truth we are actually powerless to address except when they are (or were) our present. Spanning the ages, Augustine, in the fifteenth century text City of God, promotes the practice of ‘forgetting what is behind, not wasted and scattered on things which are to come and things which will pass away … and contemplate thy delight which is neither coming nor passing.’ Whilst in 2014, in the unassuming and insightful journal Assemble Papers, Australian teacher, poet, builder and musician Dominic Bourke is quoted as uttering the poignant and simple statement ‘I lose time sitting at this desk and it’s a sweet, relaxing loss.’ His loss, it seems, is also his gain, and so it can be for us all. It requires no effort and that is, irrationally, precisely why we find it so hard. We have come to believe that we are judged by others - and indeed we have learned to value our own worth - upon our ‘worldliness’; knowledge and experience gained by our globe-trotting excursions. We have bought into the modern obsession with travel in the spatial realm; flying to holiday in exotic locales; partaking in history tours visiting sites of cultural significance; joining throngs of devotees on spiritual pilgrimages, yet remaining largely ignorant of the manifold delights which already surround our every waking moment if we only stopped for long enough to notice them.

Perhaps we all should spend a great deal more of our time (and a great deal less of our money) traveling, with stillness, through time alone. Our carbon footprints could become reduced to the scale of those of a mouse, whilst our serenity and joy might grow to the size of the mammoths of ages past? Time travel is possible. It’s real and it’s tangible and it’s available to us all, at no cost beyond a willingness to be still and embrace its wonders. A daily minute of remaining motionless and observing the small changes within a favourite vista, or a weekly half-hour of quiet reflection on your children’s achievements. Perhaps simply an annual delight in the growth of the plants in your garden.

When next you consider some travel, consider this – would you perhaps enjoy life’s journey more if you simply set aside some time to stay, perceptually alert yet bodily at ease, right where you already are?

• Finalist in New Philosopher Writers’ Award VIII: Travel