Blargh.
Well, I've now written the single worst feature article known to man.
Lifetime of Opinions
“The universe is in change, life is but an opinion,” wrote Marcus Aurelius, and so believes Paul Kenealy, a child of the Depression, a Brisbane gardener and a philosopher at heart, who relates his own lifetime of opinions to Katja Kahn-Manne.
Every night for two weeks a year, Paul watched the Belle Vue fireworks display. They were always grand and inventive, as was to be expected from the largest park in England. He could see the starbursts clearly against the smoggy Manchester sky, their incandescence framed by his bedroom window.
It was the Great Depression; a time when many could not afford coal, let alone fireworks. But, like Paul, all of the children in the row of connected houses could press their noses against cold glass and watch the costly fire in the sky. Belle Vue’s gates were often thronged by the same inquisitive children selling packets of crisps or nuts.
Paul sold the Saturday newspaper instead, often struggling through horrific weather for six hours in order to win ten shillings. He remembers “walking, and walking, and walking… snow, rain, wind, the dark English winter didn’t matter. You couldn’t come back to the depot until [the papers] were all sold.”
Even though his education finished at grade six Paul still maintains that he had learned two of the most important thing of all. He knew the importance of learning, and he could read. The latter, figuring amongst the simplest of teachings, gave him the world. He elucidates: “Everything is written down somewhere… except wisdom. You have to learn that yourself.” He was twelve, his newspaper round paid the rent, and despite the hardships of the Depression, he thought he had a terrific life.
Years later, and half the world away, Australia was different.
His childhood dream, to become a bricklayer, was realised when he migrated to Australia in 1950. The apprenticeship was expensive, and so he worked on a station to earn the money required. But apprenticeships proved to be too expensive; while the remainder of his money bought him board and breakfast, it could not extend to lunch, dinner or clothing. So with regret, Paul was forced to leave his dream in Western Australia.
He discovered a new dream in Queensland, a way of sharing his thoughts. But the soapbox forum had been closed since the Second World War, and it took months of lobbying before the Council would reopen the forum. That unique form of public speaking, which he loved, meant that he had to know precisely what he was speaking about as the crowd was full of hecklers.
Paul spoke quietly, which in itself is a remarkable departure from the stereotypical ranting soapbox orator. Subjects ranged from poverty and politics to morality and ethics, and his suggestion to resolve a glut of dairy and eggs by feeding cheese to chickens was recently misquoted in the Courier-Mail. “I meant,” he explains, “that there is no such thing as an oversupply of food so long as there are hungry people in the world.”
One regular subject, which he still speaks about in the quiet of his living room, is that “man should be the master of money, not its servant.” During the Red Scare, he joined a small group of men who were neither Communist nor Capitalist. They believed that both social systems relied too much on currency and lust for power, rather than looking to rationale, and advocated a new system of government. Paul knows that there is something to be feared from both Communists lurking under the beds and Capitalists hiding in the closet.
Years earlier, similar considerations regarding coinage had led him to lobby parliament, following the government's response to wool prices, drought and inflation by introducing a credit squeeze. This led to an increase in unemployment and Paul, still himself employed, turned to the Queensland government for help. Under the rules of the Westminster system of government, he was perfectly within his rights to lobby parliament - but politicians were perfectly within their rights to ignore him, which they did. Subsequently, the credit squeeze remained in place for a further two years.
In 1987, Paul refused to vote when the Fitzgerald inquiry into political corruption concluded with twenty-four politicians yet to face trial. It was, according to the newspapers, unnecessary for these men to be tried. Yet Paul vehemently disagreed for he believes that “if one hundred ordinary men broke the law, driving cars on the street, then the police would prosecute every one of them” and that all must be held accountable to the law. Paul was also held accountable to the law, and went to jail without protest.
Sir Thomas More, who likewise made the honourable choice despite the cost, is one of Paul’s role models. Paul was one of the original members of the Sir Thomas More society in Queensland, but has left their company many years ago.
Now, Paul remains a gardener, a student of ethics and metaphysics, and an armchair quantum physicist. His strongest opinion regards the meaning of life, and its purpose: “To be happy, of course.”
I'm still editing it, and will probably wake up at 3 tomorrow morning with a compulsion to edit the thing again. The greatest problem with this is the cohesivity. And, er, the general dodginess.
I'm, erm, pretending that my second Biology assignment doesn't exist. I'm not too keen on thinking about feature articles for a while now.
(Why do I always put too much Milo in? =/ I don't mind eating the crunchy chunks of chocolatoid, it's the lumps of baby formula, which now can't dissolve thanks to the Milo, that disgust me.)
Lifetime of Opinions
“The universe is in change, life is but an opinion,” wrote Marcus Aurelius, and so believes Paul Kenealy, a child of the Depression, a Brisbane gardener and a philosopher at heart, who relates his own lifetime of opinions to Katja Kahn-Manne.
Every night for two weeks a year, Paul watched the Belle Vue fireworks display. They were always grand and inventive, as was to be expected from the largest park in England. He could see the starbursts clearly against the smoggy Manchester sky, their incandescence framed by his bedroom window.
It was the Great Depression; a time when many could not afford coal, let alone fireworks. But, like Paul, all of the children in the row of connected houses could press their noses against cold glass and watch the costly fire in the sky. Belle Vue’s gates were often thronged by the same inquisitive children selling packets of crisps or nuts.
Paul sold the Saturday newspaper instead, often struggling through horrific weather for six hours in order to win ten shillings. He remembers “walking, and walking, and walking… snow, rain, wind, the dark English winter didn’t matter. You couldn’t come back to the depot until [the papers] were all sold.”
Even though his education finished at grade six Paul still maintains that he had learned two of the most important thing of all. He knew the importance of learning, and he could read. The latter, figuring amongst the simplest of teachings, gave him the world. He elucidates: “Everything is written down somewhere… except wisdom. You have to learn that yourself.” He was twelve, his newspaper round paid the rent, and despite the hardships of the Depression, he thought he had a terrific life.
Years later, and half the world away, Australia was different.
His childhood dream, to become a bricklayer, was realised when he migrated to Australia in 1950. The apprenticeship was expensive, and so he worked on a station to earn the money required. But apprenticeships proved to be too expensive; while the remainder of his money bought him board and breakfast, it could not extend to lunch, dinner or clothing. So with regret, Paul was forced to leave his dream in Western Australia.
He discovered a new dream in Queensland, a way of sharing his thoughts. But the soapbox forum had been closed since the Second World War, and it took months of lobbying before the Council would reopen the forum. That unique form of public speaking, which he loved, meant that he had to know precisely what he was speaking about as the crowd was full of hecklers.
Paul spoke quietly, which in itself is a remarkable departure from the stereotypical ranting soapbox orator. Subjects ranged from poverty and politics to morality and ethics, and his suggestion to resolve a glut of dairy and eggs by feeding cheese to chickens was recently misquoted in the Courier-Mail. “I meant,” he explains, “that there is no such thing as an oversupply of food so long as there are hungry people in the world.”
One regular subject, which he still speaks about in the quiet of his living room, is that “man should be the master of money, not its servant.” During the Red Scare, he joined a small group of men who were neither Communist nor Capitalist. They believed that both social systems relied too much on currency and lust for power, rather than looking to rationale, and advocated a new system of government. Paul knows that there is something to be feared from both Communists lurking under the beds and Capitalists hiding in the closet.
Years earlier, similar considerations regarding coinage had led him to lobby parliament, following the government's response to wool prices, drought and inflation by introducing a credit squeeze. This led to an increase in unemployment and Paul, still himself employed, turned to the Queensland government for help. Under the rules of the Westminster system of government, he was perfectly within his rights to lobby parliament - but politicians were perfectly within their rights to ignore him, which they did. Subsequently, the credit squeeze remained in place for a further two years.
In 1987, Paul refused to vote when the Fitzgerald inquiry into political corruption concluded with twenty-four politicians yet to face trial. It was, according to the newspapers, unnecessary for these men to be tried. Yet Paul vehemently disagreed for he believes that “if one hundred ordinary men broke the law, driving cars on the street, then the police would prosecute every one of them” and that all must be held accountable to the law. Paul was also held accountable to the law, and went to jail without protest.
Sir Thomas More, who likewise made the honourable choice despite the cost, is one of Paul’s role models. Paul was one of the original members of the Sir Thomas More society in Queensland, but has left their company many years ago.
Now, Paul remains a gardener, a student of ethics and metaphysics, and an armchair quantum physicist. His strongest opinion regards the meaning of life, and its purpose: “To be happy, of course.”
I'm still editing it, and will probably wake up at 3 tomorrow morning with a compulsion to edit the thing again. The greatest problem with this is the cohesivity. And, er, the general dodginess.
I'm, erm, pretending that my second Biology assignment doesn't exist. I'm not too keen on thinking about feature articles for a while now.
(Why do I always put too much Milo in? =/ I don't mind eating the crunchy chunks of chocolatoid, it's the lumps of baby formula, which now can't dissolve thanks to the Milo, that disgust me.)