Last night, lying on the couch wrapped in a blanket and reading his book, my companion said, thoughtfully, “Now is about the time I wouldn’t mind watching some football.” Ah, if only we had a TV. But we don’t! I decided to act some out for him, make him feel at home. I snatched up a basket that was lying about and clutched it jealously against my ribs, made a scuttled rush across the floor, growling. Arr, I said, growwwwr. Dumped the basket just inside the next doorway and rolled and fell, invisibly tackled from behind. Rawwwwwr, I said: rawwwwwwwr! (That’s the crowd). He watched, marking his place with a long finger. “That was good. But when I say football, really I am talking about soccer.” The European game! Oh, then… I sat down and we went back to our books.
Tag: football
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Eddie McGuire & Adam Goodes
Eddie McGuire, prominent Australian broadcaster, compares Adam Goodes, respected Aboriginal footballer, to King Kong. The conversation, outraged on both sides, focuses on whether or not Eddie “is” racist. Thus it gets nowhere because no one can establish what lurks in the depths of his heart.
If a child gets run over “by accident”, or because a distracted driver did not take sufficient care to prevent it, the child is still run over whether or not that driver “is” a “killer.” Let’s stop competing for most enlightened person who has the most Aboriginal friends, and focus on the damage and pain our unconscious, casual, lazy, habitual, over-entitled, selfish, spoilt racism inflicts.
Even the fact that I label Adam Goodes “Aboriginal” and Eddie McGuire “Australian” shows racism. And ill logic, given that the truest possible “Australians” are indigenous. Let’s move this conversation on and start urgently examining and addressing our actions, our inaction, and their effects, before we get round to finally being more honest about the subtle motivations and conflicts in our hearts.
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sex as a spectator sport
There are two sex shops nearby amid the shoes, discounted make up, flimsy summer dresses and cheap suits. Assuming they don’t sell sex itself any more than garage sales sell garages, I am guessing they sell implements. Outfits. Toys. Exciters & enhancers.
I’ve never been much interested in football. If someone turns up at my door with a ball, saying, Come down the park & let’s play – I’ll be there. But why watch other people doing it? Pornography seems to me strange like this. Sex is not a spectator sport. It happens between, and within. And the sex shops with their bristling array make me feel sad for their clients. If you need the Red Bull, the special lighting, the tools and the costume drama – if you are not overwhelmed by the breathing closeness of the one you want, standing before you in their naked body that has carried them here over worlds you will never know – it seems you are missing the point somehow. The reality. The experience.
How is it not unbearably moving, exciting, to take hold of someone you long for? Years ago in a trash magazine I read a confessional interview with an American rock teenager. His band is not up to much. But he fell in love with a famous girl, and had married her, and was boasting. He told how their first encounter took place in a famous hotel – o! the fame! the fame! the glory! – and in that hotel the bedroom had a long mirror behind the big bed. He said, I was pinching myself, I was saying, man, you’re balling Actress X! And you’re watching it in real time!!