Why the GCSB crisis is good news

I’m often reminded, when considering our current government, of Peter Singer’s President of Good and Evil. Singer set out to examine Bush as a person – to discover the personal ethic that created what many perceive as a damaging and destabilising political environment. He develops a theory of Bush as a Machiavellian “gentleman” – a man for people to identify with, while those behind him do the real work of government, the cruel and (arguably) necessary acts countries must do to survive.

The people behind Bush were politically very intelligent. Singer identifies them, and their Neoconservative movement, as having its origins in Trotskyite theory. Whether this is true or not, certainly among their methods was a determined programme of attacks and purges against identified enemies of the programme.

It has become readily obvious that the current Government is willing to sideline and damage any and all parties that disagree with them – from beneficiaries to Crown entities. Our Prime Minister’s affable and deliberately vague language provides a vehicle to obscure the effect of that damage. Even when admitting fault for his vague language, he has to minimise and be vague – “I was probably a bit sloppy”.  As if sloppiness gets one homes in Hawai’i.

At every step, our governing team has been ignoring advice from those we (the taxed citizenry) pay to give the best advice possible. Public services can create inefficiencies, it is true, but they also give opportunities for kinds of excellence not needed or found universally in business. We may wish to tar our top advisors with the same tarry brush we apply to road workers leaning on shovels (1), however they are there due to combinations of ferocious intelligence and breathtaking breadth and depth of experience.

How is it, then, when a civil servant has made such a horrendously dangerous error do I see this as good news?

Mr. Key’s tone. Here’s NBR’s article on the matter. This is not a glib John Key. Nothing here is sloppy in the least – he is very carefully saying exactly what he has been asked to say. This is a government realising the dream end run planned in the last electoral term is turning into a tooth and claw battle, and that their practise has undermined their own programme. Key’s only error in communication came when he was asked if he took responsibility for the error, and responded in the negative. A Minister takes responsibility for their portfolio regardless of misdeeds at staff level, and in conducting an investigation Mr. Key is acting within that responsibility. Possibly he thought he was being asked if he was culpable, which would be a different matter. A pity that particular question was not asked.

Mr. Key people behind him have taken this country through a radical set of changes which will create constitutional implications for decades to come. They have been following the dictates of the assassin master Hassan i Sabah, as quoted by Burroughs: “Nothing is true, everything is permitted“. The master’s advice was that this phrase, said before sleeping, would deliver the answer to any question in a dream.

Whatever question the National Goverment is asking, this nation isn’t dreaming, and the roomful of clocks are going off.

 

(1) Not that I personally believe people who work in extreme conditions season after season are in any way lazy.

Branding, antibranding and rebranding on the wu wei – Trigger warning.

Over the last year and a half I have been exploring the concept of antibranding in response to the “personal brand” movement. In my case, I developed a system I referred to the “Hack Me Bro” ethic.

For me, this ethic arose out of a need to protect damaged parts of my psyche from others. I have very big buttons that are very easy to push, and I react wonderfully to that pushing. A strategy to keep my true nature and identity unavailable to others felt safer than a strategy of openness.

“Hack me” assumes that I am an information system, which is true, but it also assumes intent to invade. It is a paranoid construct, with “Bro” in this case appended as a challenge. Where perceived hacking is taking place, systems must be continually be developed and redevloped in order to maintain the a feeling of safety. A blog called “Discourse Analysis Overdose” is needed not to communicate but to moderate increasing levels of internal stress and distress.

The key weakness in this system is that all information must be processed and made sense of, particularly in relation to others who show signs, or outright state, that they are also proceeding from similar assumptions. Hacking with intent can be blocked, but I had no tool to respond to noninvasive sharing of nonetheless potentially damaging information.

Last year I was recommended a book by a friend, and I chose to read it. I was unware of and unprepared for the impact it would have on me. This weekend I realised the nature and extent of that impact, and as a result  I lost control of myself –  I had an episode, which has already had serious consequences and will continue to do so.

The book contained descriptions of nonconsensual lifestyle BDSM in a romantic frame. It made me realise the fantasy lives of others could be markedly different than my own, and I wished to understand how nonconsenual and romantic could possibly apply.

I applied my analytical engine to these matters, and the conflicts in this appalling construct tore me apart. As far as I am concerned, it is up to people how they love one another and fantasise, however I did not previously have the ability to separate fantasy from reality simply because I was working so very hard to keep reality at bay.

Yesterday I was talking to my case worker. As usual after a crisis, we were working through some version of the social anxiety/mood disorder checklist. Her manner, and her questions changed sharply after I described the book in question.

Was I feeling anger? Yes.

Was it for particular people? Yes.

Did I feel a wish to harm people? No.

Did I feel a wish to harm the particular person I was feeling anger towards? No.

Time and time again these points were checked. Time and time again I considered, and calmly responded, knowing the answers were very important – that it was safe in this relationship to say whether I wished to harm other people or myself, if that was actually the case. I clarified that after two years of mindfulness work I had found that I was starting to be able to connect with feelings I had suppressed for decades, and that I was learning how to release trauma constructively, and continued to learn from situations. I acknowledged the huge risks implied by connecting with the more damaged parts of myself.

What are the risks? If that connection isn’t via growing and healing, I will be driven towards towards the antisocial spectrum of mental illness. I will be in touch with very dark and damaged parts of myself, and if I do not also have compassion I will be a risk to myself and all those around me. I can be a very effective person, so I would readily be able to protect myself from risk in that scenario.

I have the opportunity to become a complete person, or to lose all, having lived a life in the half-light.

I must state from my experience that antibranding as a stated personal position in a public space is a nonsense. A stated position in a public space is a brand. “Antibranding” is a brand.

It is also potentially an extremely dangerous one.

I am no longer anti-branding. I am renaming this blog simply seanfish. I will protect confidences of others, but be open about myself, and let that be my personal brand.

I will start with a request: I need help, for I need to connect with darkness to heal, and I will not allow that darkness to reclaim me. I already have many helpers, but I will always need more.

I will follow with a stipulation: To grow, I cannot only take. I must be allowed to give too. I can only accept help from people who are able to own their own needs in clear ways. In this way I will not risk erroneously giving that which has not been asked for.

An open letter to the Helensville community

Sent to Dave Addison, Editor, Helensville News.

Sir,

As a whiteskinned New Zealander of Maori and European descent, I have been privileged during my time in the Helensville and surrounding community.

I have witnessed many of the instances of genteel racism that fill this community. I have heard my people referred to as “they”, and our habits described as lazy in public forums. I have heard names in my precious language deliberately mangled for lighthearted amusement, even when the name in question is of a personage of national importance.

I am a generous and tolerant person, and I have done the middle class thing and allowed that some of my friends were brought up in different times. I am unable to do so any further.

This morning, I received an unsolicited email on an undisclosed distribution list. This email was sent by a prominent member of the Helensville community who seemingly views themselves as an unappointed political organiser and authority.

This email used rhetoric that alarmed me. Like an earlier document, The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, the email described Māori as controlling the government through conspiratorial manipulation of power balances.

It is very easy to survey the institutions of Helensville. Looking at local group memberships and compositions at directorial level, the European face is in still comfortably in control. There is no Māori power elite, and it is both wrong and malicious to suggest otherwise.

For the first time, I am ashamed to live here.

Sean Murgatroyd

Awaroa Road

Why I desperately want the National Government to love me, sex me up.

I have a need for attention and validation, as I have mentioned before.

I manage to moderate this day to day so that begging doesn’t take place, but being shown an absolute disregard for my worth as a person can just push me over the edge.

Treat me badly, and I’ll be yours forever. This government treating me – us all, really – extremely badly indeed. The best kind of bad is when lies are involved – and the best kind of lies are ones delivered despite all evidence to the contrary. Oh god does this government make me hot.

I’m just putting on my gimp mask.* This might get uncomfortably personal for some of you.**

I’m reminded of a close family member I caught giving my name to the police for traffic violations whilst disqualified.

The first time I was really a little annoyed. The person pleaded with me to let them pay the fines  to make amends.

The second time hurt, as did the mention I found on my police file of domestic disturbance I was apparently active in at that person’s house. Which I’d never visited.

Because I so desperately want to be loved, I still tried to repair that relationship*** – as if it was on me to do so at all.

The first forays were responded to with outright lies. Yes, this person agreed they had done so before. They nonetheless felt I was unreasonable in asserting they were by far the most likely culprit. Surely, they said, many people in the world have my full name and birth date at close recall.

We did better later – up to a point. Wrongs were acknowledged. I had to ask, how do I know this won’t happen again?

“I have my license back. I don’t need to.”

Good one.****

That’s how it is with this government. Each time they’re caught they lie until put on the spot. When they’re honest, it’s worse.

I’m not asking for much. I’m very eager to please. I just want John Key to look me in the eye while he fucks me.

* I do not own a gimp mask.

** It sure is for me. Jokes! Not.

*** I still am, by the way, and will always be.

**** I might be an emotional victim, but I’ve now got a note asking police to check for a fish tattoo on my right arm should anyone give my name without ID.

graffiti

Never a truer word said.

Remember last post? Oh those good old days of clarity. If only the sporting life were my concern this week.

Some undue mental energy has become bound around currently-unshiftable work issues. I’m meditating, and consulting with appropriate channels. I am engaging with my support community, and not letting my negatives define me.

As far as the remaining task of self-management; I’m a big believer in the art of applying minimum effort at the right moment as a path to success – it allows room for more right moments to be found. There’s also that cheesy metaphor about the glass jar, the rocks of varying sizes and the sand.

The sand is where my comfort lies right now. Some larger rocks are sitting still, but I’m gaining traction on stones and pebbles.

Monday was a glory – I got to do the real stuff, and stand in front of a group of very intelligent and capable seniors and tell them all about ebooks. Will write about said in eLibrarylife  soon enough. I spent the afternoon handling real books. Weird.

Tuesday was getting little things done with a series of wonderful moments interspersed. I’ll discuss the excellent talk from Netsafe on cyberbullying (statistics! Joy!) over on the other blog to which I sporadically contribute at a later point.

As Tuesday is  band practise, I’ve arranged to leave a little earlier and make up time later in the week. This lets me get in before Northern stops moving and gives me a couple of great hours to enjoy the town.

I was in the mood for walking, so made my way down Queen Street.

I discovered an amazing trio jamming at the bottom of Vulcan Lane. Their music sounded like it was from Sesame Street.

Electric bass, tin drum and didgeridoo at Vulcan Lane

I turned, looking for refreshment. Rakinos suited my need to change from professional person to Bohemian, so I sat at one of the terrace tables to enjoy the sunshine and the cup.

I was trying unsuccessfully to wrangle my phone when a lady asked if she could share the table. She was smoking, I wasn’t – I could hardly object. Bronwyn, a Bohemian herself, was in her young sixties. She introduced herself by showing her business card. Her title: Artiste.

We talked of the education system, locations of opression, and the need for all citizens of good standing to understand the concept embodied in the song Gaudeamus Igitur.

I then went up to Albert Park for a short but enjoyable meditation.

Dinner was Double Cheese Pancake from No. 1 Pancake! (their apostrophe), my first time. It was… light and bland, but fried. Oh my poor arteries. Good thing my day was spent walking up hill and down dale.

After dinner – music practise. Lots of fun as we were exploring something new and different.

I got home just in time to kiss Sal goodnight – I’m never ready to sleep the minute I get in, and she was ready for an early one.

Today was spent just sifting through the sand. Some grains were moved. That’s a positive, right?

Confessions of a…

Just like that, things snap into place.

Work has moved into some very interesting phases, and my hamster of a mind has a number of very satisfying hamster wheels to run in at present. Sometimes the wheels even move forward. This is the art of public service.

On the personal front, the work done in therapy on mindfulness have culminated in a series of useful decisions about how to manage being me. A bit of a deep hack with a few helpful kicks up the arse by kind onlookers.

There is still – and may always be – work to go, but the next steps are clear in my own journey. As always – finding ways to be more comfortable and open about who I am.

So here’s this year’s one. I am, as I was discussing with a friend on the twits today, a flirtaholic.

This is because:

1) My mother.

2) My father.

3) I genuinely like women and enjoy life when I can have lighthearted jocularity of a grown-up nature with them.

4) And some men. Whatevs.

Not such a hard thing to state, actually.

How does my wife deal with it? She knows who’s boss. I tell her I am very lucky very often.

All is well in the world.

I’ve thrown this one out before, but it seems appropriate.

In your dreams, seanfish.

 

The Mojo Mathers incident: Look at the the process, not the person

So, this afternoon I tweeted about the Mojo Mathers situation in Parliament. I was annoyed that a lot of the talk was directed at the personalities, and not enough at the mechanisms

Brief recap: Mathers is a deaf MP. She requested communication support from the Speaker, a position currently held by one Dr. Lockwood Smith, erstwhile television gameshow host and former marine biologist. Dr. Smith’s response was to require Ms. Mathers to pay for the specialist, disability-related support services out of her general MP’s support service fund.

Personalities: Yes, Dr. Smith is a dyed-in-the-wool social conservative. I’m quite sure he’s a sympathetic man, but it’s far too easy to imagine he’s just ignorant that differently abled people have problems of any real significance.

Right there’s my first problem. Is it that easy? This is a highly educated and very experienced public figure.

Before I move on, I also want to make this very clear: I believe a terrible thing occurred. If MPs have a capped personal support fund, it is inappropriate for a deaf person to effectively have $30,000 less than any other MP just to function as an equal.

Here’s the thing. What really happened is this:

• Mathers asks Speaker for support
• Speaker seeks advice
• Advice given based on best interpretation of standing orders
• Speaker passes on advice

Thaaaat’s all folks. Lockwood Smith may or may not be any number of unPC things, but the role of the Speaker as she is played is  as a functionary rather than an idealist. It’s a neutral role. Might there be improvements made on the Westminster model? I’m not clever enough to say. Should civil servants advise with passion? I think so, and I think this could have happened here. Other solutions could have been sought.

Is Mojo Mathers going to get her support? Yes, and I would hazard a guess from the speaker’s office. Should there be no way for the current standing orders to designate an existing appropriation for the activity, it is perfectly possible to introduce new standing orders.

Not that it wasn’t just darling of that nice Mr. Key to (wildly inappropriately) offer to pay for the service from government coffers.

Balm for the restive souls out there

Because friends have expressed concern:

• My understanding of the mechanisms and origins of my social anxiety has been in place for a long time; discovering a new, useful label for those processes has given me a new language to explore that, but has not altered my approach to life – merely confirmed it.
• I knew my brother needed to talk about those issues (not the first time he’s raised them), and knew if he got distressed it would be distressing to me. I knew that he would get distressed. I chose to navigate through that distress with him in full awareness of the consequences.
• Irregardless of the aforementioned: I am incredibly grateful to have friends who show care and concern. I am only strong enough to turn the harm from my family situation into joy, love and giving because of them.

To quote the good blue Doctor:

I am disappointed, Veidt. Very disappointed. Reconstructing myself after the subtraction of my intrinsic field was the first trick I learnt.

Your traumatic stress disorder is in the post (trigger warning)

I’ve been watching a new twitter buddy pour her heart out over the last few days or so. Some real nasty stuff happened to her and she’s apparently feeling a need to get it all out there.

I’m not sure what made her start talking at this time in this way, but I get the motive. Some traumas are such that they visit us afresh throughout our lives.

After this weekend, I’m really starting to realise that the anxiety part of my experience comes from a post-traumatic stress disorder – which my wife immediately said “Bingo!” to, and looked relieved when I mentioned it. I didn’t really experience anxiety in its own terms until my mood disorder became managed. Prior to my thirtieth year I spent much of my time naturally (oh alright, and sometimes artificially) high as a kite or flat numb. I can tell you looking back that my anxiety affected my actions, but I certainly didn’t feel it the way I did post-diagnosis; I just assumed that was part and parcel of my bipolar. I’m starting to suspect that a predisposition towards bipolar cycles was exacerbated by the trauma – essentially fantasy and numbness became my ways of escape.

Over the last few years I’ve really been able to start dealing with this part of my illness, and it’s still the hardest part to talk about. I can tell you about being “nuts” and even turn it into a fun story; I am able to tell only trusted people when I’m feeling my trauma near the surface, and even then I can get five sentences out before a panic attack intervenes.

Well, I’m over doing that, but I’m also over being in stuck in hall-of-mirrors type looped thoughts, so I’ve come here to share. Welcome to my expurgation.

The hard part is – and the reason why I can’t even say five words to close friends without freaking sometimes – a large part of my trauma came out of a culture of verbal attack in my family. My native expectation is that people will use my words against me. If you want a reason for discourse analysis overdose, you have it right there. I can literally (when in a bad space) wear myself out analysing a conversation (or my increasingly fractured recall of it) until I don’t know what’s true and what’s not.

A culture of physical attack is the other precondition. My parents were semiregularly physically violent to my brother and I as well as each other – although with wooden coathangers, for example, semiregularly is more than enough. My brother’s choice to protect me from them and the world, however, was to very frequently subject me to attacks I – much smaller and never interested in fighting – had no defence against. His theory was that he needed to educate me about the world, and help me develop an ability to protect myself. Suffice to say, he overdid it, although he and I are in agreement as to the validity of his original intentions. We have spent decades unable to be in the same room, and I’m so grateful I get to see how he’s a different person in his love for my nephews, and in the brotherly bond we share.

He needed to have a talk about what has been happening between him and mum recently – she’s started getting all over him about his parenting. For some purposes he and I are the only people we have with whom we can talk about this stuff and not have to explain a lot of uncomfortable things. Unfortunately we needed to work through a gob of our personal stuff to get there – so he basically hassled and pushed me until I stood up for myself, and while he didn’t directly threaten me with violence he described a lot of his past fights to remind me of his capacity to harm. As my protective big brother he needed to check he’d done his work well. He did. He’s one of the few people who can genuinely faze me, and when he did so I let him know in no uncertain terms, and that I wasn’t going to put up with it.

Here’s the thing. He and I got through it. The trauma we created together was mutual, and protected us (because it was in our shared control) from the more incomprehensible situation of realising that, unlike us, our friends were growing up trusted their parents. That we were the different, and not in a good way, ones. We both wish we’d found other ways to survive – but we’ve both worked not to hand the destructiveness on. We needed to connect, so we revisited that trauma until we could connect as the adults we are now. We had a really good talk and agreed that people who had a zero for two track record in terms of producing offspring able to function socially without serious therapy and/or medications of various sorts had no right to go commenting on the parenting of others. Indeed, after examining the whole situation we came to the happy notion that while we loved her and cherished her, on this account mum could in fact “go to fuck”.*

Now, a few days later, I’m experiencing a boomerang effect. All of my trauma – and there’s decades, because I sought retraumatising situations after I escaped (literally) from home – have come out to visit; I knew when I blurted out my ‘stuff”‘ to a friend who really has her own ‘stuff’ to be worried about following a meeting today. I’m sharing here to keep ahead of the nightmares I have at these times. Constant nightmares when I’m is the mechanism that keeps me in insomnia. Having had an unprecedented run of weeks without, I’m damned if I’m going back. Facing and embracing the darkness is the only reliable method I’ve found, although music and meditation sure help.

Apart from those tools, my close friends, my wife and family – all of them I’m really thankful for this wonderful world where people like me (us) can share who we are.

I’ve been looking for new approaches to community recently, and I ran across a podcast by American comedian Paul Gilmartin called the Mental Illness Happy Hour. In this week’s episode, Lee Thorn talked about his PTSD with the host and his son Jesse, another great podcaster. It really, really helped.

*That act of public inappropriateness is dedicated to the baby in this inspiring blogpost.