Not uncommon in debates, is a polarisation between two opposing sides: one that seeks radical change, and another that prefers to conform to tradition. Often, a more rational position can be attained by understanding the positions presented by each side, and finding a logical midway point that does justice to whatever merit each argument has. 

At first glance, same-sex marriage appears to be a textbook example of such an argument. However, on closer inspection, I find it difficult to even positively assess one side's viewpoint, let alone incorporate aspects of it within my own opinion. 

Perhaps I should explain exactly what my view is. 

My firm belief is that, in a utilitarian society (which, in most aspects, Western nations clearly resemble), the concept of enforcing a system that limits human rights, despite there being no evidence of the alternative causing significant personal harm or societal damage in any way, is absurd. And yet, this is the current situation in Australia - there is no universal legal recognition of same-sex couples, certainly not on equal par with that granted to heterosexual couples, should they choose to formally commit to each other. 

I would like to address some of the major arguments opposing my view, to show just how weak the current governmental and societal paradigm is. 

One such argument claims that, as marriage is primarily the domain of monogamous couples, and (most likely reflecting a lack of awareness about homosexuality on the arguer's part) that monogamy is not really an aspect of the 'gay' lifestyle. This assumption, even if it were true, is completely irrelevant - for, even if the majority of homosexuals did indeed prefer promiscuity, that is no reason to bar the remainder from exercising their desire to commit to the (theoretically) unconventional lifestyle. Indeed, if there was only one couple who desired to be legally united, I do not see why their rights should be denied because of the preferences of others. 

Another argument states that marriage entails the right to parent children, and is thus inappropriate for homosexuals, as the ideal environment for a child to be raised is with two parents representing each sex. This proposition is seriously flawed, as it ignores the fact that single-parent families are far from uncommon in this day and age. One might counter that such a situation is far from ideal, but the fact remains that the law grants the single mother the right to be parent to her child - how then can it be logically argued that it would be less desirable if the single mother was replaced by two mothers, or two fathers? 

Indeed, there is little logical basis to even suggest that heterosexual parents are in any way more adept at raising children than their homosexual counterparts. While it is true that heterosexual parenthood is the natural order, the fact is that advanced technology, changes in gender roles and highly available information give homosexual parents as much chance as heterosexual parents of  raising children in a healthy, positive environment. 

The last major argument appeals to religion, but I choose to discard this completely - after all, the tenet of the separation of church and state is one that predates this debate by centuries, and thus, religious opposition should have no impact on the making of laws. 

In conclusion, there seems to be little, if any credence to arguments against same-sex marriage, and neither does there seem to be a reason why it is not yet a wholly accepted part of society. This is a situation that must change - and soon. 

'Celluloid dreams’: it is a term that is often used in conjunction with the art of filmmaking; a metaphor that portrays individual works of cinema as dreams captured on film. It seems odd, then, that the state of dreaming has been so little explored through this art form.

That is not to say that there haven’t been films about dreams. Richard Linklater’s Waking Life, Jan Svankmajer’s Alice and Akira Kurosawa’s Dreams are just a few that come to mind, and David Lynch uses dream logic to brilliant effect in Eraserhead and Inland Empire. Yet, none of the directors mentioned above can actually claim to have put dreams on celluloid – they are dreams viewed from a third-person perspective, a paradoxical achievement when it is considered that dreaming is first and foremost a personal experience.

What I’m getting at is that, for me, pure representation of dream within cinema has been unrealised, and will continue to be so until a director is willing to depict this state with subjective camera. It is practically self-defeating to do otherwise.

What Linklater, Svankmajer and Lynch have proven is that it is possible for a film to have the random, illogical, free-flowing nature of a dream and be extremely enjoyable. A Hollywood-accustomed audience may not be able to appreciate such experimentation, but this is not the audience that a serious filmmaker should be catering to in any case.

However, there are inherent problems with subjective camera, beyond the merely technical (and it must be stressed that to create the desired effect the technical aspects must be handled correctly) - one must always consider the film’s audience. The Blair Witch Project, for example, proved that subjective camera could have the potential to be an extremely frustrating, even sickening experience – I say could because I don’t believe it has to be that way. In day-to-day life, we don’t feel like vomiting because of what we see before our eyes when we go for a run, so why should the identical view on a cinema screen be an unpleasant experience? This is a problem that would need to be discussed at length and sorted out before filming, but in the specific instance of dream depiction it would be largely unnecessary, as one would presume that such images are more steady, more simplified.

Nevertheless, further complications arise with the use of subjective camera. The very purpose of using subjective camera is to create a more personal, individual experience. However, cinema only has the power to replicate two of the five senses: sight and sound. Touch, taste, scent… all must be discarded with, except by suggestion. Of course, such are the limitations of this art form, and one must deal with the tools available. In fact, the biggest problem with subjective camera is far greater, and it is a problem that puts it at a great disadvantage compared to conventional cinema: the essential emotional detachment involved.

An actor’s face can convey so much in the way of emotion and reaction; surprise, horror, happiness, grief, anger. If the viewer is trapped inside the head of the protagonist, we are denied these signs, and although we now share the protagonist’s aural and visual senses, we are denied the workings of their brain and, therefore, almost anything in the way of potential empathy for the character.

This can be combated in several ways. Firstly, I have considered the idea of using either a (whispered?) voice-over or subtitles to replicate our inner monologue. I prefer subtitles, as they perhaps allows a more realistic effect, although could potentially be taxing on the audience – perhaps relatively intermittent subtitles might be the way to go.

Secondly, Julian Schnabel’s The Diving Bell and the Butterfly not only showed that subjective camera can be used practically exclusively in a film narrative, but he allowed the viewer to feel emotion through reactions of other characters to the protagonist’s predicament, and through the ingenious use of blurring of the screen to imply tears – indeed, this is easily one of the most powerful single images I have ever seen in a film. Thirdly, an establishing shot (say, looking into a mirror), at an early stage of the film, could have a positive impact on audience visualisation of the character. Tactics such as these could easily allow an audience to become involved with the protagonist, and make the film far more watchable as a result.

Of course, depicting dreams are a different matter altogether. As emotions in dreams tend to be simplified and often greatly exaggerated, many of the above problems would be less relevant. However, this does raise the question of how one actually goes about filming dreams.

My current preference is that a sequence of dreams be shown, emphasising individual themes (e.g. nostalgia, eroticism, horror and grief), in the context of a number of nights inside the character’s head. The dreams could be intercut each time with reality of the day before, through work, relationships, mundanity, and so on. For me, it would be a necessity that the entire film be shot subjectively, without non-diegetic sound (with the exception, perhaps, of some dream sequences where non-diegetic sound may well be realistically employed) or unnecessary cinematic effects.

None of this would make an easy task, and I believe it would probably not be a viable first film. Nevertheless, I believe there is potential here to create a radical cinema that is yet to be explored, and construct it so well that an audience can appreciate and enjoy it.

Chapter 17: Dick, Bessy and Fanny Visit the Land of Stocktake

“Where shall we go today?” asked Fanny breathlessly, as the intrepid trio of travellers perched atop the Faraway Tree. “I want to go to the Land of Ponies,” said Bessy, affecting a rather quaint clichéd British accent. “I want to go to the Land of Striptease,” said Dick, who really wasrather too young to know what he was talking about. Suddenly, there was a flash of lightning combined with a sudden increase in third world debt, and the mighty Corporation Man stood before them.

“Ho ho ho,” he laughed, quite evilly, “I am sentencing you all to a day at the Land of Stocktake. It is a horrible place where nobody talks, nobody gets to do anything fun, and you never, ever, get to go home.” Fanny started to cry, and Dick gave Corporation Man quite a glare! But there was nothing they could do – they had to follow his instructions, or else be cast into the eternal depths of the Land of Centrelink. 

"Golly, Bessy," said Dick, as the three clambered through the physically inexplicable hole in the sky into the Land of Stocktake, "what a queer place!"

It certainly was. They had found themselves in a strange shop where people were standing, sitting, kneeling, all the while repetitively scanning things with glazed looks on their faces. Robot slave masters stood near them, poking them with pitchforks. "Heavens, how monotonous!" whispered Fanny.

Suddenly, a voice called out from a back room: "Grub's up, fellows!". "Oh, hurrah!" said all the people (who were really just clever automatons), and they made a jolly good dash off in that direction. Dick, Fanny and Bessy followed after them. "Very curious indeed!" frowned Dick.

What they found was a small table, and a few stale sandwiches. Bessy was very dismayed, and Fanny began to cry again. "Oh Dick," she sobbed, "is this all we shall have to eat today? Is it?" She ate a sandwich anyway, and everyone laughed.

Soon, it was time for everyone to return to their curious activities. One automaton knocked down an entire shelf of stock. "Bollocks," he swore, quite rudely. None of the children had heard such language since Dick’s Uncle Quentin had received a subpoena in the mail for his naughty smuggling activities.

By and by, a nice automaton came over to where Dick, Bessy and Fanny were standing. "Hullo chaps," he whispered rather loudly, "my name is Percy!" 

"NO TALKING! Get back to work," said a robot slave master, who then accidentally chopped Percy's head clean off with an axe. Fanny began to cry again, which made Dick cross. "Oh, grow up," he said. "It's nowhere near as bad as what's happening to the baby seals". Fanny wiped her tears away and grinned - Dick always knew how to cheer her up!

One robot slave master realised that the children were standing around without working, so he gave them all a jolly good spanking, then presented them with scanning guns and sent them outside to scan earthworms. 

Dick, Fanny and Bessy decided that lots of fun could be had with their scanning guns. “What if we all scan something at the same time?” suggested Dick, who was quite mischievous. “Oh let’s,” said Bessy, and they all pressed their scanners simultaneously. Were they surprised! The sound of the beep was so loud that Dick was thrown back several miles, and the shop began to cave in. “We really ought to escape,” said Fanny, and Bessy gave her a slap for speaking out of turn. Dick picked both of the girls up under his arms and sprinted back to the collapsing shop. “Save yourselves,” said Dick heroically, ditching the girls and leaping through the magical portal head-first. Bessy and Fanny were confused, but they followed Dick’s lead. “Ow ow ow,” said Fanny, who realised too late that a robot slave master had grabbed hold of her ankle on the way through.

The three jumped from the top of the Faraway Tree with the robot slave master in hot pursuit, their fall broken by a plot contrivance. “Run,” panted Dick, but it was no use – they were cornered. “Ha!” said the robot slave master triumphantly: “I have invaded your land now. From here on, there shall be stocktakes 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. Even” - he paused for effect – “on Christmas.” Fanny began to cry. “Oh cheer up, Fanny,” said Dick quite cheerfully, “at least we didn’t get eaten by piranhas!” They all laughed – even the robot slave master!

Then, everyone went home and had scones and tea.

The End.

Life can often be somewhat perverse. Human relationships, naturally, exemplify this.

One trait that we all (or, at least, the vast majority of us) share is a desire to be wanted by others; accepted; respected. For many of us, the need is simple: to be as important to another person as they are to us.

Here is where the perversity arises: it seems to me that the more one wants this, the less chance there is of attaining fulfilment. One becomes attractive by becoming confident; sure of oneself - in short, by ceasing to care. I am not sure how to explain this precisely, but I suspect a substantial part of this tendency relates to the dominant/submissive aspect of relationships and human behaviour. While we may enjoy having power, being desired, being looked up to, it seems that part of us may actually want to be in the other position. Of course, these desires will be felt in varying quantities, and there will always be extremes with the remainder of the human race fitting somewhere on the spectrum in between. Nevertheless, it goes without saying that the happiest, longest and most rewarding relationships will probably incorporate both aspects equally (or near enough to): wanting, and being wanted.

So what is one to do when wanting to be wanted goes beyond typical human emotion and manifests iteself as insecurity? For better of for worse, this state has been integral to me ever since I was a child - more or less, I care what everyone and anyone thinks about me. I continually worry about being respected and liked, and my greatest overall desire (since I was able to construct any such thing in my mind) has been to find 'love', with all that entails. Yes, perhaps that is a somewhat mundane realisation - doesn't everyone want to love and be loved? Yet, for me, it is overwhelming.

That is the reason why all my efforts in this regard (to one extent or the other) have failed. Insecurity; self-consciousness; lack of confidence - call it what you like, it is all part of the same thing. However, these failures have allowed me to realise something else.

While I strove so hard to find love, it had never crossed my mind that genuine friendship can bring (at least) a fair proportion of what I seek. It also happens to act as a potent medicine to insecurity, creating a strong flow-on effect.

Of course, that doesn't mean that friendship cannot create its own insecurities. Rejection still hurts, badly. People who were once considered a friend, but at some point no longer want anything to do with you, have devastating power in their coldness. The rejection validates and reinforces insecurity, and no matter how much you have gained it can still land a significant blow to your self-esteem.

While I certainly feel that I can reach a stage where these insecurities dissolve, I don't know whether I will ever become someone who achieves attractiveness through not caring. The desire to be wanted feels too integral to who I am. Perhaps, more relevantly, I should ask myself whether I actually want to lose that desire at all. It could well be that, by beginning to accept and embrace this aspect of myself, I will have attained my most powerful achievement.

"I remember you. The city was made to fit the size of our love. You were made to fit the size of my body. Who are you? You’re killing me. I wasn’t aware that you, one day, would fall upon me, just like that. I was waiting for you with an unlimited impatience, steadily. Devour me. Deform me in your image, so that no one else after you can understand the reason for so much desire. We will be alone, my dear. The night is never going to end. The day is not rising on anybody. Never. Never again. You’re killing me. You're good for me." -- Hiroshima, Mon Amour.

Once more, I feel myself enveloped by a churning defeat. There has been little physical evidence of this attack - call it little more than intuition, insecurity, paranoia. But I know that I have failed. I know that, by allowing myself to become this naked, I have become ugly in your eyes. I have never been able to maintain a lie for very long, and that's what it was: a shameful deception, driven by a longing to be something slightly better than what I am.

Oh how I wish sometimes that I could rip off this face, this body. Oh how I sometimes cling to them like some last drop of sustenance. I hate your discovery that behind my beauty lies emptiness; that behind my facade lies torment. And, somehow, just like that, even that external beauty begins to fade - and I, bowed, pallid, become distasteful to you.

"You're killing me. You're good for me." This is why I now crumble. There can be no pain without hope, and yes, how I cherish these soaring, destructive feelings that I thought I might never feel again. But each time they reappear, they appear a little more aged, a little more worn, bearing accumulated markings of regret, humiliation and resignation.

How I wish that you would smite this assailant; that you could. But you're only human.

In no particular order:

1. Jesus poses

I don't think anything gets me quite as much as this. As a metaphor, the 'crucifixion' pose is about as subtle as an Adam Sandler film, and just as weak. OK, we get it - he sacrificed himself. And Jesus sacrificed himself. So deep.

By the way, I understand there's only so many ways someone can fall to the ground when killed, and YES, it's tempting. But please, for Christ's sake (see what I did there?)... just don't.

Examples of this vice: Gran Torino, and, in a whole class of its own, Superman Returns. God that was stupid.

Exception to the rule: The Omega Man. The closing scene is still kind of silly (as is the film, actually), but it does actually make some kind of sense in the context.

2. Shaky cam

Yes, I'm far from alone on this one, but it had to make the list. Now, it's not that I hate handheld camerawork without reservation - some films have used it very well. Still, there's a special place of loathing in my heart for especially obnoxious handheld. You know what I mean.

Examples of this vice: Half Nelson, The Idiots, and, of course, The Blair Witch Project.

Exception to the rule: The Child, or, in fact, any film by the Dardenne brothers. The cinematography manages to give these films a sense of heightened realism and immediacy, which is what handheld is actually supposed to do.

3. Not knowing when to stop

You know the film. It seems to be drawing to a close, and it has actually been a pretty decent movie. The credits, it seems, will roll at any second.

And then the film keeps going. 10 minutes. 20 minutes. Soon, another half-hour has passed and you're just hoping for the audience's sake, and your own sanity, that the film could just end. But no, this movie isn't going to finish until every single loose end has been tied, every character has hugged every other character and your bottom is experiencing a new feeling of intense numbness.

Examples of this vice: Cinema Paradiso, The Lives of Others and the brain-freezing drivel that was Australia.

Exception to the rule: Jacques Rivette's La Belle Noiseuse. With a running time of about 240 minutes, it seems like it will never end... but in this case, you don't want it to. The key is in the pacing - the films I've listed above just seem rushed and sloppy towards the end.

4. Slow-mo for dramatic effect

Slow-motion is one of the oldest, and simplest, special effects in cinema. When used properly, it can convey drama, beauty and surrealism. When used unnecessarily, or overused within a film, it seems hackneyed, ham-fisted and ridiculous. The biggest problem is that there are some directors who seem to think that dramatic weight increases accordingly with number of slow-motion sequences.

Example of this vice: American History X. I can think of no other film that has used slow-motion quite so shamelessly, especially in such a self-important film (did YOU know that white supremacists were bad?). Also, the ending of Thelma and Louise uses slow-motion to unintentionally hilarious effect.

Exception to the rule: Stalker. No director has managed to use slow-mo quite like Andrei Tarkovsky, whose films were consistently visually extraordinary and filled with beautiful, dream-like imagery.

5. Violence

This one may be kind of contentious, but I am not a fan of on-screen violence, and more so, many audiences' disturbing fascination with it. This is not to say that it has no place in cinema, but there is no doubt that it is overused, and, indeed, glamourised in many Hollywood films. I wish more directors would take a leaf out of the book of Michael Haneke, who consistently manages to explore disturbing subject material and the theme of violence without showing anything explicitly: the result is far more effective.

Examples of this vice: Hannibal Rising probably has nothing on some of the more gratuitous films of recent years, but as I avoid most of them like the plague, it'll have to do. Other examples are 300,Resident Evil: Extinction, Pasolini's catalogue of cruelty Salo, and the vast majority of action and horror movies emerging from Hollywood in the last few decades.

Exceptions to the rule: Hidden (not coincidentally, directed by Haneke), Fight Club, and Peter Jackson's absurd ultra-violent comedy Braindead.

6. Overused pop culture references

In Beverly Cleary's children's novel Ramona and Her Father, the dad has a saying: "first time is funny, second time is silly and third time is a spanking." I wish that filmmakers would take note of this in regards to two terribly overused gags (although I'm sure there are others): 1) "Eye of the Tiger" appearing at any point of a film and 2) a group of characters walking towards the screen in slow-motion, Reservoir Dogs style (and even that itself was a homage to A Clockwork Orange). Funny the first time, but very quickly going the way of Paris Hilton jokes.

Examples of this vice: One need only sift through the internet movie database to find classics of cinema such as Epic Movie, Night at the Museum, Kicking and Screaming, Doctor Dolittle andDumb and Dumberer: When Harry Met Lloyd which make use of the song at one point. As for the slow-motion one, pick any one of a handful of kids movies from the last few years.

Exception to the rule: Starter for 10 actually uses both (from memory, in the same sequence no less), but I'll forgive it on account of being a very funny and otherwise quite original romantic comedy.

7. Biopics

This may be harsh, but there is something about the biopic genre that just doesn't work for me (and, indeed, this applies to the majority of 'true story' films). Firstly, the film often tries to span many years, and I think this automatically weakens it. For me, movies which simply depict a short time period of someone's life, without back story, are far stronger. I also feel that biopics, bound as they are to follow real events and do justice to the people involved, often seem to lack a real point. No matter how extraordinary someone's life was, I find myself asking 'so what?' - what is this film trying to say, exactly? As a result I find these movies, almost without exception, boring.

Biopics also seem to have a tendency to wrap up with a description of what befell each character after the conclusion of the film's events, which (ironically) only adds to the incomplete feel of it all. Special mention must be made here to fictional films which end in the same manner, such asUnbreakable. To put it bluntly, it's ten times worse.

Examples of this vice: A French Woman, Camille Claudel, The Life and Death of Peter Sellers.

Exceptions to the rule: Milk proved to me quite recently that a biopic could, in fact, be an excellent film. Boys Don't Cry might have been another example of this had the supporting cast known how to act and the director not been so bland.

8. Alternate endings

Although these aren't part of the movie per se, their inclusion on the DVD is a sure sign that the director had no idea how to finish the film, and almost seems like an apology for the weak cinematic ending. One thing that the endings usually have in common is that they are equally crap.

Examples of this vice: This seems to be a category exclusive to the b-grade thriller. Godsend, The Butterfly Effect and, most laughably, Hide and Seek have all been guilty of this self-indulgence.

Exceptions to the rule: There are none. Most serious directors actually realise that the conclusion is absolutely crucial to the film, and as such, put a bit of effort in.

9. 'Foreign' characters speaking in English... with an accent.

Subtitles don't really wash with a lot of mainstream audiences, and as such, with some exceptions (The Kite Runner, Slumdog Millionaire), most Hollywood films set in a different country simply use English. This would be fine, but there seems to be a constant need to give the characters 'foreign' accents (or worse, British). The suspension of disbelief required for these films is absurd, and I feel that any movie with serious intentions should either drop the accents or do the brave thing and inflict the unthinkable terror of subtitles.

Examples of this vice: Hannibal Rising (again... it was a pretty bad film), almost any movie featuring Nazis, and The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

Exception to the rule: Nothing that strictly meets the criteria, but Pasolini's The Canterbury Tales is kind of an example of the reverse. Although, of course, the stories are set in England, the characters all speak in Italian, but inexplicably break into song in English from time to time. Despite this, it's an excellent, bawdy, completely insane film that loses nothing for its logical inconsistencies.

10. British bad guys

This says a lot about American attitudes and stereotypes, but it seems that no 'baddy' is truly evil without a British accent. Disney films are especially guilty of this.

Exception to this rule: Seeing as how even the presence of a two-dimensional 'bad guy' is generally the hallmark of a dull Hollywood film or a children's movie, it's no surprise that it's difficult to find an example of a good movie with an evil Brit. The closest I could find is Pulp Fiction, with Tim Roth attempting to rob the diner at the beginning and climax of the film.

So, that's it. Of course, this is a far from definitive list, and I didn't even get to sentimentality, overacting or sequels, but I have at least covered most of the flaws that turn me off a lot of movies. I can only hope that a fair proportion of filmmakers have learnt from these mistakes and will make some attempt to avoid them, thus sparing audiences annoyance, boredom and a fervent desire to throw popcorn at the screen.

I have experienced something beautiful.

Beauty in casual sex. I never really believed it existed. And yet (with the possible exception of some of the intimacies I have experienced in the context of relationships), this was by far the most positive sexual experience I have had.

I realise now that there is something about the menage a trois that fiercely attracts me. When Interpol sang "There's no I in threesome", they weren't trying to be funny - there really is a loss of self-consciousness, self-awareness, and simultaneously a sense of community, of connection, of elation that transcends the simple physical pleasures: the joy of taking this intimate experience and sharing it.

All this was enhanced by the fact that the others were a couple, in love; both of them beautiful, gentle people. There was no sense that I was a threat to their relationship, and yet, no feeling on my part that I was excluded from that affection. This was some kind of extension of a couple welcoming a friend into their home: they welcomed me to their bodies, their intimacy, and, for that night, their love. It was an act they committed out of love for each other, and it was an act for me.

I needed this. For a night, all my anxieties, self-loathing and negativity were erased by a simple act of love and generosity; and, at last, I caught a glimpse of what sex could be.

The fundamental tenet of much left-wing thinking, I believe, especially socialism, is the concept of oppression: the theory that all the ills in this world are the result of there being an oppressor in any given circumstance. 

I'm not sure that I agree with that. That is not to say, however, that there is no truth to it. In Alain Resnais' My American Uncle, it is suggested towards the end of the film that everything we do in this life is committed with the primary objective (sub-conscious or otherwise) of achieving dominance over others. That doesn't necessarily reflect my opinion, but it's a very interesting idea that I have given a lot of thought to in recent times. 

If this is the case, then could overthrow of oppressors simply lead to the installation of further oppression, ala Animal Farm, or an even more nightmarish situation such as Stalinist Russia where a wave of people are constantly elevated to leadership positions before being killed off? Perhaps human society simply needs leaders and followers, and thus some kind of class structure will always naturally emerge. 

I don't think that necessarily needs to be a bad thing. This is where I seriously disagree with the socialist position: socialism sees oppression everywhere, and in every situation. Certain groups, (e.g. women, blacks, gays), become 'oppressed groups' due to minority status and/or certain inequalities. It's interesting that the oppressed seem to be considered incapable of creating oppression within their own group (yet consider the status of women in certain Aboriginal communities, or the argument over whether Muslim women should be made to wear the burqa in Western countries), and this immediately calls into question the division made between 'oppressed' and 'oppressors' - after all, what do we make of people who actually belong to both groups? And is it possible that groups that may be considered oppressed by some, such as women in mainstream 21st century Australian society, are not in fact oppressed at all? Perhaps the existence of different groups or classes, and even inequalities between those classes, are not evidence enough of oppression in their own right. 

I think this mentality is largely responsible for the creation of ideas such as 'racism' and 'sexism'. I understand what the concepts represent, and thus the fact that those who try to equate racism with what we might call reverse-racism are completely misguided. However, I think the actual concepts themselves might be somewhat spurious. For example, 'racism', I believe, has little grounding in reality. While there have certainly been instances of what we could accurately call racism in the past (e.g. the holocaust, Rwanda, white supremacism), I believe that racism is little more than myth. As I've argued previously, most of what we call racism is simply xenophobia, where the dislike, fear or hatred of another culture becomes the motive - not some idiotic belief in racial superiority or particular dislike of other racial groups. Furthermore, this complex, very human fear of differences often becomes simplified and rejected as nothing more than 'racism', with the intention of pushing the idea that the 'racists' are the oppressors, when in reality the oppressed are probably every bit as 'racist' themselves, and would react the same in a similar situation. 

This is the problem with supporting the 'oppressed' unconditionally. Many 'oppressed' groups would be just as willing, if not more so in some cases, to oppress if they got into power. Does anybody think that a Hamas-run government of Israel, for example, would usher in an era of freedom and equality? I certainly don't. 

So, perhaps it comes back to the theory espoused in Resnais' film. If, indeed, we are all oppressors on the inside, then it's no longer a matter of opposing certain people in certain positions of power, but coming together as a society to regulate that power, and to vocalise the needs of 'oppressed' groups (if they exist), without simply supporting them unconditionally. Democracy has achieved this very well in the past (think suffragettes, civil rights and, inevitably, gay marriage), and I think that is the kind of societal model that we need to look towards.

Tiredness engulfs me 
I look in dismay 
book cover bent 
not severely but 
hangs a little off the page 
well should have taken more care 
as paperbacks are fragile. 

Tomorrow. 
Already today, 
says my clock. 
Arbitrary keeper of time 
divides the days like that 
but would we have days 
without clocks? 
Brain too slow now 
to think that one through. 

Now I shall sleep 
and with luck 
I might dream of you. 

How do we define what is natural and what is artificial? 

Human beings, like every animal, plant and geological formation, are a natural organic product of this earth. What we construct, such as roads, buildings, cars and computers, are made from natural resources; thus, they are natural products constructed by natural organisms. Can we argue, then, that the Empire State Building is any less natural than a tree, or, at least, a termite mound? 

Of course, we ourselves are very much part of this natural world. If nature had intended us to still live in caves as hunter-gatherers, that would be the status quo. We may, in some ways, have advanced to the stage of being able to exert influence over the world in a manner which we would not have been able in a more primitive state, yet it seems the process of evolution had to necessarily result in a life form such as us. 

'Koyaanisqatsi' means 'life out of balance', and the film of that name depicted human technological progress with the intention of proving that paradigm: that our human world had destroyed, or at least drastically and negatively altered, our planet's existence and natural order. I'm not exactly sure how much truth there is in that. Everything, I believe, is a natural progression of what has come before; we are part of a natural process causing a natural outcome in a natural environment. How can balance create imbalance? 

To state that they had collided would have been some reflection on how he felt about it all. Yet, it hadn't really been like that whatsoever. She had very much instigated this affair; he had allowed himself to be swept along. This, for him, was difficult to comprehend. This was a woman whose attributes far exceeded those of any girl who had taken his fancy at this stage of his young life - and yet, she had come to him. 

She was not uncommonly beautiful. She was attractive, that went without saying; indeed, there was an almost indefinable beauty in her features that set her aside from most women he had laid eyes on. In simple terms, the effect she had was to render every other member of the female sex utterly mundane. 

Then there was her intelligence; then there was her maturity. Even more so, her gentle composure, and honest openness. She knew she was smart, but never permitted herself to act arrogantly: it was a trait that he both respected and found deeply attractive. 

What had led this woman to fall for him, then? This was a question that often puzzled him. 

He knew he was somewhat attractive, physically. That was something. Yet he had often considered, with no hint of facile self-deprecation, that his rampant insecurities and lack of confidence were sufficient to cancel out any interest he might have otherwise aroused in the opposite sex. He was used to chasing, and being rejected; desiring, but from afar. 

And then she came from nowhere. Brief acquaintances in the past, it was she who made the first move by suggesting a meeting. He obliged, neither knowing what to expect or anticipate; yet, as the night progressed, he found himself become more and more stimulated by her intelligence, eloquence and sexuality. The more he looked at her, heard her speak, discussed ideas with her, the more attracted he became. 

Caution was abandoned. They slept together on the first night; saw each other frequently; were "going out" after just days; and, before the conclusion of the week, "I love you" had been uttered by each. Any outsider would have considered this foolhardy, yet, for him, it seemed perfectly natural. There was strong mutual attraction (intellectual as well as sexual), maturity on both sides, and a genuine desire to be around each other. One does not find that every day. 

What would happen next was anybody's guess. She had taken him into an adult world of maturity, experience, radical views on sexuality and relationships, and re-introduced him to the possibility of loving another person. All he knew now was that a certain emptiness had been filled; a searching desire had been sated. A hope began to emerge that, for once in his life, entropy might stall and find itself replaced by evolution, development and a maintained state of happiness. This, he found, was a desire he cherished greatly, and for once, believed in. 

When I was about 14 or 15, I thought almost every girl in the world was beautiful. Blame it on my innocence, inexperience or whatever, but this is how I honestly felt. 

These days, I have far more of an eye for imperfections. Body, arms, face, teeth, anything you can think of. I now look at girls who I thought were beautiful a few years back, and feel embarrassed. 

But then, often, a thought strikes me. How can I condemn myself for how I felt back then? Why, exactly, is it such a bad thing to see beauty in people, instead of seeing imperfections and ugliness?

The main reason for my change of mentality must surely be sourced to my years at school. Suddenly, I was hanging around people who had "standards". You couldn't be attracted to a girl who was "fat". It was fashionable to laugh about other people's "unattractiveness". If I hung around with girls instead of boys, it just got worse - putting other girls down is almost like a sport among females in high school. To suggest that this behaviour stems from self-conciousness and obsession about one's own appearance is probably not too far off the mark. 

One of the most ingrained prejudices in society must be against weight. My ex-girlfriend is slightly overweight, but stunningly beautiful. Other people only seem to be able to notice the former aspect. Yes, I understand that we males generally prefer women around the average-to-thin mark, but that doesn't mean that the ideal woman in our eyes looks something like a catwalk model. A little bit of fat in certain places can be deeply sexy, e.g. around the stomach, bottom, and breasts (duh). It's actually quite nice. I grant you, I think my ex-girlfriend would be a little more attractive if she lost a little bit of weight, but, just as she is, she is far closer to my "ideal" than one of those near-anorexic models would be. 

Even given my own mental contamination at this stage, it still seems like my opinion on this is quite unfashionable. Girls who look thin to me complain about needing to lose weight. Some even seem to think that they need to have a flat stomach to be attractive. It's a delusion, and a disturbing one at that. 

I don't know if the media deserves all the blame, but surely Hollywood and the mindless drivel that is celebrity magazines must shoulder some of the responsibility. Image is pounded into every facet of the media. How many famous American pop singers and actresses do you know who aren't exceptionally "beautiful"? Do you think Delta Goodrem or Jessica Alba are where they are today because of their incredible acting or vocal talent? Popular entertainment is a kind of pornography, where sex appeal comes first and talent or ability a distant second. 

The reason I'm bringing up Hollywood is that it seems like it feeds back into society. Natural attractiveness is altered to what Hollywood tells us it is: absurd slimness, no body hair, cosmetic surgery at the slightest sign of age or "imperfection". 

It's something that upsets me, and I'm not sure what can be done about it. The increasing problem of obesity (childhood and otherwise) means that one cannot wholly condemn image obsession without conceding that people should be aware of the danger to health posed by severe weight gain. I just wish that our society didn't have such a constantly reinforced, skewed vision of beauty. The end result cannot be a positive - after all, everyone becomes ugly if you look at them critically, for long enough, and have a keen eye for flaws. 

I don't know exactly how to describe that mentality, but I'm pretty sure it's not healthy.

This deserted mire 
Is where I bide my time, 
As grey-toned wasteland 
Becomes this home of mine. 

This ravished Eden - 
And I, first-born of men, 
Watch it be consumed 
As I consumed it then. 

Alone? No, not I: 
For you once brought me here. 
Or was it I who - ? 
My memory's unclear. 

Sit so still you now! 
And grin - a frozen smile 
Plastered on your face: 
"My love, just stay a while." 

Death awaits me here, 
So plot I my escape 
At night, to steal away 
In fear, lest you awake. 

You. You're always there 
To offer me that pill - 
Faust-like, faltering, 
My weak resolve I kill. 

Myopic statue 
(left naked in the mud), 
How you beckon me, 
Invite me to your blood. 

Therefore, I remain 
In this accurs'd country 
With my hope, my dread, 
That I will soon break free.