INCINERATOR NOVEL FORETELLS LIFE

A public meeting is held in Derry Londonderry (54 degrees North, 7 degrees West), on the topic of waste management and the various approaches taken to it across the world. This is hot because of the concerns of citizens at the prospect of a large-scale gasification plant which will take in waste products, convert them to gas and incinerate that gas, with waste sent out a chimney stack and into an ash pit.

There was a similar plan in the early nineties, by industrial giant Du Pont, to build a waste incinerator and bring waste from many regions. Health concerns were raised by the plan. Public meetings took place. Public representatives wrestled with the challenge of waste management. A successful, citizen-led campaign of opposition caused Du Pont to withdraw their plans.

The notion developed in me that I was of this place and that I would take charge and do something about it. That this was my city as much as anybody else’s and that I was going to let my voice be heard, now and into the future. I was going to make a difference. It was up to me. The city – Derry - was up to me.

There were public representatives in attendance at the recent meeting. Eventually their experts will have to make recommendations to relevant committees and to the full City Council.

Sometimes I wonder at the timing of events. I wonder if there’s a big clock out there turning and ticking away and that events occur when the time is right, even when we don’t know it. I feel this about the job. I was at a meeting today, after speaking to Tony. The full department. A major review of the council waste management policy is to be launched. Everything from wheelie bins to toxic emissions and pipes spewing effluent into the river. The whole grubby underbelly of the city’s life. And I sat there and made my contributions. Spoke my piece confidently. One of only two women at the meeting. People listening to me, making notes on the pages I’d circulated. Asking me questions.

The public meeting was informative and challenging. There was good evidence from international speakers, in the room courtesy of the everyday magic of Skype. They spoke of waste reduction and job creation successes in San Francisco, Italy and in Wales, Scotland and Magherafelt. A City Council worker spoke from the floor and described a new recovery facility, which created 4 new jobs and a welcome service.

I wasn't nervous in the ordinary sense of that word. I was tense, ready, prepared. I'd done the work. Just one phrase could cause me grief. Zero Emission Site. That was the one to get across. Now that I'm on the inside of the waste management problem, if I want to see off incineration I've got to box clever. I've got to prove other alternatives and I've got to prove them against two further tests. They've got to make money and they've got to win votes.

This idea of recovery and designing-out waste at the front end is the realistic, modern way forward.

I presented my vision of a thriving eco-industrial park where the city's minimised waste was managed largely by conversion and re-manufacture into useful goods. I gave a timetable aiming at a zero emissions site and I projected up to five hundred new jobs. It was music to my audience's ears.

Such parks exist all over the world. Fewer and fewer gasification/incineration plants are being built in America. Towns and cities in Italy have turned their backs on what was named as 'old' technology. Responding to waste at the front end rather than at the back end is the modern way.

If we think there's a machine we can put crap into and get gold out of, we're codding ourselves.

If I had a success with the council, surprising Paddy, other officers and the councillors themselves, then it was only because I cannot live 'on the outside', as if I was a spectator of nature. I am a macroscopic being, embedded in the physical world. These pages record the everyday dialogue I write between myself and the world.

There are no easy options.

I have no grand powers to overtake the laws of thermodynamics, which say that time's arrow goes in one direction and that disorder and waste increase as time goes on. That affronts me, both as a scientist and as a person.

But there is optimism.

I am an expert in waste. A new set of initial conditions for my life and for the future. It will never be a smooth curve. Chaos makes sure of that, but the fractals, the apparently irregular, complex shapes and trajectories generated in the chaotic geometry of my life, will be mine. And they will be beautiful.

A Sudden Sun: novel; Dave Duggan; Guildhall Press; Derry, 2012

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DR. STRANGELOVE RIDES AGAIN

Narrator: For more than a year, ominous rumours had been privately circulating among high-level Western leaders that …..

. ….. Dr. Strangelove The Second plans to bomb the USA.

'For far too long, the USA has been outsourcing our bombing in places such as Iraq, Afghanistan and Libya. It's time we brought the bombing home. Why should the USA bomb those countries when we could bomb our own infrastructure. Think of the boost to USA business when reconstruction commences'.

Queried on the wisdom of creating a precedent, Dr. Strangelove The Second, was quick to cite the USA's long-term history of bombing internationally.

'I've always done this, I don't need to tell you. Hiroshima? How you like them apples? And as for chemical weapons, well, I exported tonnes of napalm and Agent Orange all over South-East Asia and look how those economies have boomed since then. What I'm planning is nothing new.'

When pressed for details of schedules and targets, Dr. Strangelove The Second said

'A draft list of sites already exists, mainly in desert areas with low population densities.'

Asked about reports that many people are on the move, creating a refugee problem, Dr. Strangelove The Second replied

'These are Native Americans. They're nomadic people, not refugees. They're migrants, seeking to benefit from the the opportunities this bombing will bring.'

Dr. Strangelove The Second dealt curtly with the proposal that medicines and food parcels should be dropped instead of bombs.

'This is business. Not welfare.'

When further queried about the dangers of acting unilaterally in this fashion, Dr. Strangelove The Second revealed that France plans to bomb France, with specific targets in The Loire Valley and in Provence.

'France has a long history of bombing all over the world. Even now France is bombing Chad, wherever that is. And, like me, France is keen to bring the benefits of targeted surgical strikes back home. For far too long, I have been exporting my best bombs and out-sourcing major reconstruction opportunities. France feels the same. I am confident that the UK will arrive at a similar decision and begin bombing parts of the Wiltshire countryside near the chemical weapons facility Porton Down.'

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0057012/quotes

Dr. Strangelove: or How I Learned to Love the Bomb; film; Stanley Kubrick; Columbia Pictures Corporation; Los Angeles; 1964

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BOMBING SYRIA ANYONE? CHEMICALLY?

Overheard, off-mike, at a corporate briefing, with italic-static coming in from academia.

'When all else fails, we bomb.'

With the unprecendented scale of American indebtedness it is hard to see how the US can continue to project its military power as it did in the post-Cold War period.

'Listen, bud. When we've sold them the stuff over the years, years in which we've propped them up, cosseted and feted them, and they start misbehaving, well, then we call them despots and bomb them. Well, not 'them' as such, but the poor people around them. The soldiers in their army who took the despot's pound (100 qirsh) to feed their families. And we bomb the rebels too and their families, while we search furiously for someone to put in the despots place, because it's westernisation and modernisation and shock and awe we're touting'.

At present the US combines an absolutist insistence on its own national sovereignty with a universalist claim to worldwide jurisdiction. Such an approach is supremely unsuitable to the plural world which globalisation has created.

'Pull out those swords and we'll give them a good rattle. Line up those battleships and sail them into the east Med.. We're lords of all the sea. Rule Westernia, Westernia rules the waves. Listen, if those folks won't behave in a modern manner – buy our goods, eat our food, choose our religion - who says we're abandoning it? We fundamentally are not! - use our weapons – who said we invented chemical weapons? Germany and Britain 1914-1916, you say? Had to, when you think of it. Made a few pounds out of it too. Of course, I've paid a visit to Porton Downs. Wonderful part of the country. We run marvellous training courses. Do we research and produce chemical weapons?'

The economic recession is linked to a recession of democracy.

'No point waiting around for the UN to come up with a plan. They couldn't come up with a pot to piss in. No, we'll have to do it ourselves. Done it through the centuries. Bloody Russians won't play ball. Damned Chinese are worse. Only interested in themselves. Not really interested in the world and modernity and progress. As we are. No, I am not being ironic.'

The notion that the United States leads an expanding bloc of western nations is almost the reverse of the truth. In present circumstances, 'The West' is a category which has ceased to have a definite meaning – except in the United States, where it denotes an atavistic resistance to the unalterable realities of multiculturalism.  

'Listen, bud. This is only going one way. Our way. And we'll kill if we have to. And afterwards we'll re-construct the hell out of the place, you bet your bottom dollar we will and we can tell you now, we're ready to get down and dirty with those oilfields. What? Syria has no oil? Why the hell are we thinking of going in there?'

There are things practically everybody can do, and if you are from a privileged sector of the population, then there are even more opportunities. You can speak, you can write, you can organise, you can reach out to other people. If you keep doing it, you can make an impact.

False Dawn -The delusions of global capitalism: John Gray; book; Granta; London; 2009

Occupy: Noam Comsky; book; Penquin Books; London; 2012

https://www.gov.uk/defence-chemical-biological-radiological-and-nuclear-centre

http://breathingwithalimp.blogspot.co.uk/2011/08/so-syria-has-no-oil-then.html

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THE IMMUNITY OF THE WEALTHY

One of the puzzles of the current age in Ireland, and across the globe, is the immunity of the wealthy in the face of their very obvious culpability in matters of law, finance and governance. 

Great devastations have been delivered via the banking, legal, financial, accounting, property development, civil service and political systems in Ireland; devastations that have impoverished people, wreaked havoc on landscapes and environments and forced thousands to emigrate. Yet no one has been brought to book.

Why is this?

Because his purse is basically unlimited.

You know any really rich people?

Maybe a couple.

You ever know one you could trust?

Fintan O'Toole, columnist in The Irish Times, is near apoplectic on this question.

The legal system, meanwhile, has proved itself to be almost entirely powerless in bringing to justice those who commit crimes that are most corrosive of social order: corruption, fraud, tax evasion, bribery, perjury, market abuse, corporate recklessness.

Why is this?

The jury has a story. In their head. About what happened in that room. We have to drive that story out of their heads.

How?

By telling them a better story.

One of the stories the rich tell us is that we're all in this together. We are not. The gap between rich and poor grows daily and becomes, many people argue, increasingly irreversible. Another story the rich tell us is that the rich/poor divide is equivalent to other divides in the world and thus amenable to positive action to rectify it.

build a coalition of white and black, Latino and Asian, rich and poor, young and old

This is a fallacy.

because nobody's going to come out and admit they're awed by his money

Good efforts can be made to rectify the discriminations cited by Barack Obama, all except for the rich/poor one. At the end of the day re-distribution of wealth, and the immunity that comes with it, is the only course of action that will bear fruit.

I tried being poor. I didn't like it. Did you like it …?

Race: David Mamet; play; Samuel French; New York; 2008

A More Perfect Union: speech; Barack Obama; 18.3.2008; excerpt in a theatre programme; Hampstead Theatre; London; 2013

Facing up to State's failure can allow us to begin again: Fintan O'Toole; column; The Irish Times; 6.8.2013

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WATCHING NILE RODGERS AND CHIC

Good times

These are the good times

Our new state of mind

These are the good times

Anticipation buzzes the venue as the mirror ball revolves slowly, sending a spangle of light over the concert-goer, one of a crowd of people in very good form. A dj works at a record deck, but all eyes are on the stage where rock band equipment is in readiness. Stage-crew crouch about in earnest poses, settling, adjusting, fitting and tweaking.

A slim black man comes out with a camera. He is casually dressed, his long locks bunched under a woollen hat. He waves at the crowd and takes photos. The crowd at the front go crazy when they recognise him. It is Nile Rodgers, guitarist, writer, producer, creator of funk and disco music. Legend.

Funk and disco is a form of popular music, originating in America, and in a sense the historical bridge between R&B and Soul and recent forms of hip-hop. Nile Rodgers is the enduringly genuine human link in that chain of popular music.

The crowd surges forward as Chic, the band, comes on. There is a stylised long pause, with band members, including Nile Rodgers, now resplendent in a white suit, turning their backs on the audience, before facing them with the opening chords of the disco party.

Everybody dance

The concert-goer and everyone else does. Men, with arms folded across their chests, let them fall by their sides as they begin to shimmy. Women wave their arms in the air. The atmosphere heats up and becomes mega-sultry.

Must put an end

To this stress and strife

I think I want to live the sporting life

In the throes of disco frenzy, Nile Rodgers takes a moment to dedicate a medley to the memory of a local man, a friend of the promoter, who recently died. It is but one instance of the groundedness of the whole event. The keyboard player looks like the concert-goer's Uncle Jack. The singers are stunningly statuesque African-American women. The music is high-end pub band, with star voices and musicians. There is a modesty and self-deprecation that is alluring and charming.

Good times

These are the good times

The spangles from the mirror ball flash across the smiling faces of the dancing crowd. The band's sound is crisp and clear. The trumpet solos, in particular, draw the concert-goer's ears.

And it all ends thrillingly with Nile Rodgers taking the acclaim of the crowd to the sound of the dj playing Daft Punk's hit single of 2013, Get Lucky, on which Nile Rodgers features, riffing his trademark funk-guitar chords.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4FRXLzw37-8

We've come too far

To forget who we are

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RORY MCILROY AND THE CURSE OF NIKE

Rory McIlroy is a famous professional golfer from Hollywood (54 degrees North, 5 degrees West). That's Holywood, County Down, Northern Ireland, not Hollywood, Los Angeles, USA, (34 degrees North, 118 degrees West). 

Therein lies one of Rory McIlroy's current burdens. He cannot decide if he's British or Irish, which he will have to do (or someone will have to decide for him), if he wants to play golf in the next Olympics.

Golf, like the many sports played across the world, is a particular cultural creation, full of specialist forms and mechanisms, norms and practices. One of the arcane arrangements in Rory McIlroy's sport is that other people – caddies – carry his equipment.

Rory McIlroy is a very wealthy young man, a comfortable context for the burdens he does actually carry.

Recently, he played a major tournament on a golf-course in Scotland, where women cannot be members or enter the clubhouse. Such Taliban-type practice, in a modern liberal democracy, is found irksome by some, though large numbers of people consider it perfectly acceptable. No state or other agency seeks to intervene to overturn the discrimination involved.

Nike is the Greek goddess of victory. As a woman would she get into that clubhouse? She is portrayed with wings, holding a crown of victory above the heads of the conquerors and the conquered. And Nike is a global sports goods corporation, a modern commercial phenomenon, which sells products and dreams in an age when sport is a hugely popular cultural form and money-making engine. Citizens can 'join' Nike, becoming acolytes of this form of the goddess and do what the company's swoosh brand declaims

LIFE IS A SPORT. MAKE IT COUNT

Unfortunately for Rory McIlroy, in seeking to make it count financially, he got into bed with the corporate goddess version of Nike and his playing form collapsed. He is playing at a poor level now, which is embarrassing, given the media hype generated during his pre-Nike success. He is a man cursed by his relationship with Nike. He recently spoke of walking around unconscious. He has the lurgy of corporatism racing in his veins and he can't swing, drive, putt or think.

Is he an innocent debased by the culture of greed with which Nike infects his sport? Or simply greedy himself?

These questions burden the people of Northern Ireland, who are desperate for heroes. Which is yet another burden for Rory McIlroy. How does he carry – or perhaps it is his caddy who is carrying? - this burden for a society struggling with a depressed economy and child poverty figures to make even a corporate accountant blush. Where being British or Irish is worked out across police lines, with petrol bombs, water cannon and rubber bullets flying up and down the fairways of the streets and into the rough of the crowds and the bunkers of peoples' gardens?

The survey found that 43% of children grow up in poverty in West Belfast.

(The Irish Times confirms the curse
http://www.irishtimes.com/sport/golf/money-the-root-cause-of-mcilroy-s-break-up-with-horizon-sports-management-1.1550890)

Who's Who Classical Mythology: book: Michael Grant and John Hazel; JM Dent: London; 1993

http://www.nike.com

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-northern-ireland-21506734

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WATCHING BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN

I was raised out of steel here in the swamps

There is a chill in the air as Bruce Springsteen comes on stage in Stade de France, Paris (48 degrees North, 2 degrees South). It is the chill of grief. The text on the grave of Sartre and de Beauvoir in Montparnasse reads travaux en cours. Madiba lies dying in Johannesburg (26 degrees South, 28 degrees East).

Bruce Springsteen sings Glory Days and the concert-goer sees a man in front of him, wearing a green jumper, with tears in his eyes.

When Bruce Springsteen sings Wrecking Ball, the man in the green jumper, a farming man, with strong, brown hands, sheds tears down his tanned cheeks.

Now my home's here in these meadowlands where mosquitoes grow big as airplanes

He sways in time with the music, as does his wife beside him, in the packed seats of the stadium. They exchange smiles and she gently caresses a tear from his face, as if to say je t'adore.

Through the mud and the beer, and the blood and the cheers,

I've seen champions come and go


So if you got the guts mister, yeah, if you got the balls


If you think it's your time, then step to the line,

and bring on your wrecking ball

Each day the wrecking ball of life swings and strikes. Even Bruce Springsteen feels its icy breadth as it careers past him. The concert-goer senses an ending in his songs and his thoroughly energised performance.

Bruce Springsteen shakes hands and warmly backslaps the members of his superb band as they leave the stage. It is the gesture of a generous captain on a winning team. He speaks good French in a Jersey accent. He is at home at the heart of the spectacle, yet he is a toy figure to the concert-goer, even as he sounds clear and loud.

The man in the green jumper is more human. The woman with him, both of them, are present and alive. Though infused with griefs and ghosts.

Here, where the blood is spilled, the arena's filled, and giants played their games


So raise up your glasses and let me hear your voices call


Because tonight all the dead are here.

Is this what Samuel Beckett knows, even now, buried with his partner Suzanne Déchevaux-Dumesnil, under a simple slab, further into the cemetery at Montparnasse?

Yeah, we know that come tomorrow, none of this will be here


So hold tight on your anger, you hold tight on your anger


Now when all this steel and these stories, they drift away to rust


And all our youth and beauty, it's been given to the dust


When your best hopes and desires are scattered through the wind


And hard times come, and hard times go


Upraised arms on the pelouse in front of the stage sway from side to side, fingers spread and stretched, as sunflowers daily angle for the sun and wave in the breeze. The band is the wind, Bruce Springsteen the sun, we the tournesoleils, yet green in the fields of hope, as the chill of death descends and confirms the swinging of the wrecking ball.

Bring on your wrecking ball


Come on and take your best shot,

Let me see what you got


The concert-goer, almost three years out of an Intensive Care Unit, when the wrecking ball of illness struck him a hard, yet still a glancing, blow, cries salt tears.

A de-railing blow, a re-aligning blow, a warning blow. A blow for all time.

The concert-goer sees the man in the green jumper smile and cry. The concert-goer wonders at the power of music, the burdens of grief we all carry and the manner in which lives turn to face and fade in the chilly sunlight and the booming air.

Je ne peut plus continuer comme ça. I can't go on like this.

On dit ça. That's what you think.

http://www.springsteenlyrics.com/

Warten auf Godot/En attendant Godot/Waiting for Godot: Samuel Beckett; play; suhrkamp taschenbuch; Frankfurt am Main; 1971

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