Transition Girl

Why transition girl?... Best answered by a quote from the Iliad....."The soul was not made to dwell in a thing; and when forced to it, there is no part of that soul but suffers violence."

Saturday, May 02, 2020

staying at home - random notes in times of existential threat

Most people's panic shopping product of choice has been toilet paper. Mine has been gourmet honeycomb from Tasmania. Not really Wahls Protocol friendly but I think on a subconscious level, my mind might be weighing up a cost-benefit of messing up my immune system's effectiveness and an end-of-days binge on a stockpiled honeycomb sweet treat. Weird.

A few weeks over February, I listened to a podcast by Josh Clark - aptly named The End of the World. Recommended to me but for the life of me I cannot remember by whom. Covered existential threats facing humanity one of which was a pandemic. It was a very educational podcast although it left me filled with a sense of dread that only a 'are we living in a simulation' programmer from the future could have designed to amuse themselves. If I convince myself I am not real, maybe the fear about the current pandemic may not feel so bad.

Been working from home since early March. Compromised immune system put me in a high risk category to do all to avoid potential exposure. A week later the directive came from my Victorian government forcing the entire state to do the same. As a part-time speculative fiction writer (the day job also involves writing although focused on evidence-based advice), adapting to days without human interaction was unsurprisingly easy. Past home isolation sojourns related to poor health lasting days, weeks, and months have long been my normal. The only practical change for me was getting a few more essentials delivered. Did discover how much of a valued client I was to my pharmacist who arranged delivery of medications the moment it became allowed under new rules. Not so easy for some of the people I work with - those dealing with homes filled with others - partners, kids, extended family, pets - much more challenging to mix work with other commitments in a confined space. My introverted alone time with two felines who value the quiet as much as I do is something I cherish.

My creative spark has charged into overdrive. It seems dystopian prospects sprouts new growth of ideas like forest growth after Spring rain and sunshine. Will meet a deadline months ahead of time such is that heat banishing the writer's block of months past. The vivid dreamscape even stranger than usual - a sign of anxiety. The eczema also a measure of the bubbling underbelly.

Something unexpected has been the messages, reconnecting through social streaming services - from friends of decades past extending the current circle. Also, forging new connections through the virtual world. This seems to me to be one of the better things about staying at home. The virtual coffees, lunches, drinks, viewing of theatre, accessing all manner of activity from around the world. Snow leopard cubs at Melbourne Zoo - live cam delight. I hope this feature remains long after we are no longer housebound.

The evolving language of circumstance changed is truly fascinating. Obsessing over "offnungdiskussionsorgien" - a little pearl originating from Germany, which loosely translates to "orgies of debate about opening things up". The "sidewalk dance" has been a feature of my weather-permitting daily walks as I try to steer clear of others wandering (maybe there should be some guidance about what is acceptable active wear for lower key promenades permitted under current restrictions). But it is the "doomscrolling" that has been the most common routine in my day - the act of mindlessly consuming an endless stream of unsettling, unnerving, maddening, or otherwise terrible news on an electronic device - so I can interpret the data and provide summaries to my two brothers in almost daily conversations. Using a critical thinking analyst skill set I have so that they can be spared the torture. Finding myself being asked about and lecturing on economic supply and demand shocks for laymen friends in need of explanations. Reminding me of my university days when it was acceptable to talk and express opinions about any subject - everything old is new again.

"Quaranstreaming" in the "Coronaverse" - my daily consumption of movies and television seems to be trending upwards. More so than my reading. It's harder to read after a day, every day, sitting in front of a computer. A black mirror television screen somehow seems different. Watching things I would never have contemplated in normal times - but then, I was out and about more which is strictly limited now. Viewing more light and fluffy comedy or gentle drama from all over the world, less thought provoking science fiction about frightening trends that may (have) come to pass. Outbreak is on my blacklist. Blacklist is not. Old whimsical favourites from previous viewing are getting reruns - Fooseball and Nocturnal Animals on my all time best episodes of Community.

Perhaps the strangest correlation (note not causation) has been an observation that I started my day job at a time when unemployment was 17 percent (recession in Australia at the start of the 1990s) and it now looks like the last few years of my working life will be marked by a once in a lifetime downturn. The 30 years in between have been an economic wonder. Relieved beyond measure that I am still able to work. Doing all that I can to design support and facilitate to help those who cannot. Under the banner "supporting economic recovery". Keeping me busy - big time.

Reading about the situations in other countries - worrying about friends and family located in some of them - feeling "Weltschmerz" - that particular mood of weariness and sadness for the suffering of the world, tinged with empathy and love for humanity. For now at least, Australia has dodged several bullets. It's a country that has often been described as "lucky" - the tyranny of distance living on an island on the other side of the world. Who knows why we are faring better? I just hope it stays that way.

Saturday, November 30, 2019

procrastination moment number 210

"Block, Block, Block." Sounds like a chicken if you say the words out loud and repeat them. With the year almost over, I feel like it has been a wasted year creatively speaking. My longest stretch of writer's block is now reaching its seventh month. So I am writing my end of year reflection a month earlier than usual in an effort to figure out why and break the blockage. Contemplating what I did differently this year after last year's writing and publishing efforts.

Writing the sequel to the Peithosian Gift, I wrote a solid 42,000 words then stalled somewhere in the middle of the story. The roadmap of what happens in the rest of the story is there, I just don't feel inspired to write it right now. I haven't felt inspired for several months. Wondering if I should just stop for now and start fresh in 2020. My alternate project (the second writing task I set myself each year to manage moments of blockage in the main task) has similarly been affected. It seems I don't feel like working on the stage play either.

Culprit number 1: Exhaustion
I suspect exhaustion may have been one factor driving this outcome. My day job has been busier than usual - since last December - and workload has filled too many of my weekends taking up 'air time' normally reserved for creative writing. I have taken steps to address this issue and will be reverting to part time in the coming year. The mid-week break should squarely recharge my batteries as well as provide some extra time to spark creative idea generation.

Culprit number 2: Stalled in the middle.
I have always had motivational issues in the middle of stories. The beginnings and ends are exciting to commit to the page but the middle feels like filler. Reminds me a little of second child syndrome. I am a middle child and, at times, felt invisible. The middle has to work harder to get attention. My current drafting middle is devoid of any grabbing headlines. The prospect of making it more exciting is putting me off.

Culprit number 3: Lifestyle changes.

I have been working hard at maintaining my health to manage those pesky autoimmune diseases inherited from my parents. Side effects of being on the Wahls Protocol include a dwindling desire to socialise via usual food and beverage gatherings with friends because it drives every waiter crazy hearing a patron explain all the things that they cannot have on the menu. The dietary restrictions have stifled my enthusiasm for the small pleasures of a good meal (and the loss that has come with that is a decline in the exposure to compelling conversations with close friends). I have spent the year in a self-imposed 'bubble', almost hermit like. There have actually been health benefits. First time in over a decade I haven't had a cold and consequent half year cough that was guaranteed to follow. I made it to November before any hospital stay - inflammation that got out of control and my spleen-less body needed reinforcements (IV super antibiotics) to join the fight. It was optimistic of me to think I could have a year without some health scare but it was much better than my norm. Still, I don't think the benefit was worth the cost. Never underestimate the joy of human interaction - socialising and talking about all manner of topics from philosophy to psychology with friends - to inspire. I will be venturing out more in 2020 even if it comes at the price of my health.

Culprit number 4: A silent dreamscape.

This one seems to me to be the biggest contributor to my stalling. My sleeping quality has plummeted to new lows. For a chunk of the year, my oldest cat Khoshka, in her (phenomenally impressive) 21st year of life was going through the throws of age related deafness and dementia, meowing loudly at all hours of the night disoriented. Being woken up several times each and every night was a challenge at best and distressing at worst because there was little I could do to help her. The old girl passed away in the middle of the year. The silence in the house translated into silence in my dreamscape. When I finally found my sleeping rhythm again, the dreams did not return readily. My vivid dreamscape has always been a critical source of creative ideas for me. I go to bed thinking about where I might take a story. Overnight, my unconscious mind processes without the anchor of day reality and spits out answers. This year the dreaming has been sparse. Little fuel from the day going in and an empty tank coming out. It seems sleepwalking through my days is lifelessness epitomized. Recipe for improvement? Add some adventure? Something needs to change.

So, where does this leave me for my goals for 2020? Re-activating my mind and body will be critical to where I chose to focus my writing efforts. It's time to wake up.

Sunday, April 21, 2019

the moment

I try not to think about the melancholy that courses through my veins.

It's been a part of my flesh,
every fibre of my being,
for as long as the thought
became a memory.

Sometimes, I choose to forget.
Sometimes, I try.
Sometimes, I just let it wash through me.

Acknowledge I cannot bleed it out of myself
without bleeding myself dry.

The moment.
In truth, there have been many.

Wondering if any feeling in that moment is beyond fleeting.

Realising I have never really been passionate about anything.

A life full of trying
an almost endless stream of new things
to see if anything would take.
Hobbies, travel, sport, art, music, creative pursuits, adventures.
Even jumping off a cliff a few thousand feet above the nearest landing point
at a place aptly called 'the Remarkables',
strapped next to a seasoned jumper hang-gliding to the ground below.

Floating for a while with an abyss flashing before my eyes.


Dispassionate to the point of accepting
an irregular heartbeat is a mechanical failure.

I am a robot.

Moving through a simulation and nothing is real.

Sleep walking.

Blue pill all the way baby.

Yet imbued with red pill wiring.


Saturday, March 16, 2019

procrastination moment number 64

I am quite sure my 'day job' contributes to my writer's block. As does sleep deprivation. The former occurs when workload issues prevent me from sitting down to write in the first place. The latter arises when I have had so much interrupted sleep that my dreamscape travels are curtailed and my imagination has less fodder for creative exploration.

Since the start of December last year, I have less weekends to myself as my boss's boss seems to have gone into overdrive about pleasing our employer. I have always accepted that the day job will necessarily make pursuing my writing passion a part time exercise but a small part of me longs for the time to be able to pursue my need to escape much more into worlds imagined.

The sleep interruption is not related to the day job but rather a cat about to celebrate her 21st birthday, which in cat years is accompanied by dementia and deafness and a near constant urge to meow at the top of her little lungs. The meow of a disoriented cat has inspired many a horror story me thinks. Until recently, I was letting the noise wake me up several times a night, which limited my REM sleep and the best source of inspiration for me. A week sojourn for my little terror in the cattery allowed me time to 'catch up' sleep and, on her return, a change of routine that now includes earplugs and a shut bedroom door. Sleep, sleep, perchance to dream.

The several weeks of disruption has drained my writing mojo. I have gone through the routine the last couple of weeks but distractions have taken the grunt out of the product. What's on the page at the end of my writing day is disappointing. I can see major rework written all through it.

Normally, procrastination is an integral part of my creative process. A little time away from the screen can do wonders for clearing my head of the clutter and white noise that when I return to the keyboard, the words subsequently flow. But 2019 for me so far has been anything but satisfying.

Talking to my (former) housemate last weekend - the melancholy creeped into my voice as I realised how integral the writing is to my wellbeing. Without it I am lost.

So I will list the myriad of ways I procrastinate in an effort to 'unblock' myself. Let me count the ways (in no particular order).

1. Counting the number of ways to procrastinate.
2. Read my news feed.
3. Read the latest media on social media.
4. Stop and read a chapter of the book at the top of my reading pile.
5. Sort through the bookshelves to reorder the books by a different classification - this is a good one for a longer stretch of time.
6. Sort through the DVDs in the cupboard with similar objective to 5 above.
7. Spring clean the wardrobe to remove any clothing not worn in the last year.
8. Drive said clothing to the nearest op-shop.
9. Choose a recipe to cook.
9. Figure out the missing ingredients and go shopping for them.
10. Cook or more commonly prepare and bake a cake, slice or tart that I can't eat - the team at the day job and neighbours like this one especially as they get to sample the product.
11. Go for a walk.
12. Go for a swim.
13. Go to the nearest nursery and shop for garden plants.
14. Drive to a better nursery further away and shop for garden plants.
15. Figure out where to put the weird sculpture purchased impulsively at the nursery.
16. Go to the cinema.
17. Go to a bookstore and browse and return home with 10 books to add to the reading pile.
18. Write a post for the blog.
19. Binge watch entire series of B-grade action tv show for mindless entertainment - shows from the 1990s are particularly good for this one.
20. Convince a friend to join you to view a modern art show and stare at things that doesn't look like art.
21. House chores.
22. Hard-core chores like scrubbing the bathroom spotless.
23. Skype a friend overseas.
24. Talk to one or both of the brothers - not at the same time.
25. Play fetch with the (other) younger cat in the house that thinks its a dog.
26. Dusting. Ignore Universal Dust Theory.
27. Take a long drive.
28. Browse real estate websites.
29. Rearrange the apps on the phone or computer.
30. Run a virus scan worried that computer has been hacked.
31. Play some form of Solitaire.
32. Listen to a podcast (or several) - preferably philosophy or science or linguistics to 'learn' something new.
33. Look for pictures and videos of last fantasy crush and try to remember why I like them.
34. Take photos of random stuff - whether it is on a walk or at home before realising the pattern in the image is cool - then try and figure out what 'photo album' it belongs in.
35. Go to the theatre.
36. Brunch! or Lunch!
37. Order more books from the Book Depository - preferably ones on the wish list.
38. Go to the zoo.
39. Clean out the pantry of products with a 'best-before' date more than five years old.
40. Do a spot of gardening. (Get frustrated by the neighbour's overgrown wisteria.)
41. Take a power nap that ends up being four times longer than 20 minutes.
42. Contemplate the answer to the question - what is the meaning of life, the universe, and everything.

Rinse. Repeat. I am ready to write now.

Tuesday, December 25, 2018

Reflections on happiness

As is tradition, my last post of the year (or first post of the new year depending on the timing of my inspiration) is one where I reflect on the year that's been and year that will be. Truthfully, I do that all year round - my posts are rarely anything but reflection. Still, today seems as good as any to mention a little about a book (and film) that resonated the most for me this year and why - Hector and the Search for Happiness by Francois Lelord.

Before I delve into that book, I will report on the highlight of my writing efforts for the year. My fifth novel, the Peithosian Gift, was released in late July to (mostly) good reviews. I also made some inroads into a few side projects that included a year of publishing poetry on Medium. I didn't get as far though in writing a stage play that was one of my other writing goals for 2018. This is okay - the play can stay on the dance card for the coming year. My main task for 2019 will be to draft the sequel to the Gift - aptly named the Peithosian Curse. I'm about a quarter of the way through the drafting of the first draft. No pressure - a promise to have something publishable by late 2020. I will also set a reading goal for 2019 as my unread books on the shelve are now well into double digits.

Now back to Lelond's book. There were a few moments when I read that book (a best seller several years ago but I'm always slow to the party) when I wondered if I had ever had real moments in my childhood when I was filled with innocent unbridled joy. I'm sure there were some; I just for the life of me could not remember them. Now, many years later, I mark a moment after reading the book when I realised that perhaps my teen and a large chunk of adult life had placed me well behind an 8-ball and, if I am content today, it is almost in spite of that chain-laden history. A symbolic "FU" finger to the past.

That is how that book made me feel. It made me realise that I had somehow found my way to being content as if I had stumbled upon that outcome by accident.

Lelond's book was written by a dissatisfied French psychiatrist who travelled the world to try and figure out why so many people who came to see him were not 'unwell' by psychiatric standards but 'unhappy'. For a specialist of this nature, there are only four real chemical imbalances and medications to address them - antidepressants when sad, tranquilisers when scared, anti-psychotics when you have a mind filled with strange thoughts and voices, and mood stabilisers to avoid the highs that are too high or lows that are too low. For everyone else, it's just a need to talk. I know - this explanation probably simplifies it too much - but it was a neat lens to contemplate one of those universal questions - what is happiness? I think I can reliably say I'm in the need to talk camp rather than chemical imbalances but I don't think anyone can ever really be sure.

The character in Lelond's book, Hector, travels far and wide only to discover that happiness for him was basically someone at home who made him fell like his life was complete. Along the way, Hector's observations summarised below provide insight into that elusive happiness. I have italicised the lessons that felt right for me personally.

Lesson 1: Making comparisons can spoil your happiness.
Lesson 2: Happiness often comes when least expected.
Lesson 3: Many people see happiness only in their future.
Lesson 4: Many people think that happiness comes from having more power or more money.
Lesson 5: Sometimes happiness is not knowing the whole story.
Lesson 6: Happiness is a long walk in beautiful, unfamiliar mountains.
Lesson 7: It's a mistake to think that happiness is the goal.
Lesson 8: Happiness is being with people you love. Unhappiness is being separated from the people you love.
Lesson 9: Happiness is knowing your family lacks for nothing.
Lesson 10: Happiness is doing a job you love.
Lesson 11: Happiness is having a home and a garden of your own.
Lesson 12: It's harder to be happy in a country run by bad people.
Lesson 13: Happiness is feeling useful to others.
Lesson 14: Happiness is to be loved for exactly who you are.
Observation: People are kinder to a child who smiles (very important).
Lesson 15: Happiness comes when you feel truly alive.
Lesson 16: Happiness is knowing how to celebrate.
Lesson 17: Happeness is caring about the happiness of those you love.
Lesson 18: The sun and the sea make everybody happy,
Lesson 19: Happiness is a certain way of seeing things.
Lesson 20: Rivalry poisons happiness.
Lesson 21: Women care more than men about making others happy.
Lesson 22: Happiness means making sure that those around you are happy?

Measuring happiness (the numerous studies summarised on page 136 of Lelond's book) - if you compared yourself to others and didn't find yourself wanting, if you had no money or health problems, if you had friends, a close knit family, a job you liked, if you were religious and practised your religion, if you felt useful, if you went for a little stroll from time to time, and all of this in a country run by not very bad people, where you were taken care of when things went wrong, your chances of being happy were greatly increased.

Wisdom with age? Maybe. I know today more than any day in my past that what is inside of me (unless chemical imbalances exist) is something I can drive - even unconsciously. Happiness is what I make of it.

Saturday, November 24, 2018

Prcrastination days with Pudeldame

My drafting work on the sequel for the Peithosian Gift (working title Peithosian Curse) started with a bang a couple of months ago. Then I hit a wall - about 25,000 words into the drafting. That was three weeks ago. Got stuck on a scene where I was not sure what I wanted the POV character to do. It took several sittings to land something on the page but not before I spent a day side-tracked with rethinking the timeline for the whole novel, reworking that timeline and then plotting out the scene by scene storyboard to match the new time line. Eight years become thirty-six months. I came back to the storyboard early scenes three more times to cross-check particular characters and their emotional progressions to ensure consistency with the revised timeline.

I usually describe this sort of reworking effort as procrastination. The source of my unwillingness to write is sometimes related to my overly analytical mind discovering plot holes (rarely the size of canyons but big enough that I just know a reader of the story would grumble at stumbling into it). It can also be because I am just not feeling creative on my chosen day of writing and no amount of staring at the computer screen is going to inspire me. I once spent a day counting the number of ways I could procrastinate and reached a number well into the 60s suggesting, like many writers, I can always find an interesting way of filling the time in the surrounding silence of the solitary pursuit to avoid answering the question - what to write next?

More often than not, the faffing around does lead to some spark of an idea and the writing eventually flows. But when it doesn't, it is better to let go and do something else. Today I'm writing this blog. After almost a week of driving, walking, staring at the screen, watching tv, listening to philosophy podcasts, admiring random art painted on giant silos out in the country, scowling at the dampening wintery rain that cut my road-trip shorter than originally planned, rearranging my bookshelves (to give me more room to buy more books), making rocky-road slice, seeing a movie and having ice cream for the first time in almost two years (and feeling sick afterwards), walking some more, loosening up with a therapeutic massage, trying my best to dampen the urge to impulse buy more books online shopping (and failing miserably). Probably didn't help that I watched the movie "Hector and the Search for Happiness" on iTunes only to discover that it was based on a book by a French psychiatrist traveller so, yes, I simply had to get the book...Some of my favourite philosophy 'fiction' books have been written by French writers (see The Elegance of the Hedgehog as an example).

The list goes on. On the plus-side, I now have a better understanding of the great debate post WWII between Satre and Camus. Another plus, discovered a curious German band - called Pudeldame - who's YouTube video clips reminded me of the music videos made in the 90s that were entertaining stories in themselves. The music was good, too - though I will confess German is not the easiest language on the ear. Lead singer is also an actor with lovely puppy-dog eyes who I have been watching on a sublime series on Stan called Deutschland 83 (and 86). There is some serious procrastination going on here. Check out one of the music videos here:

I can feel the 17-year-old punk girl, Grace, bubbling up inside of me. She is one of the POV characters in the sequel. I am supposed to be writing one of her scenes today. It's early. I still have six hours of procrastination ahead of me.

Friday, October 12, 2018

The appeal of dystopian fiction

I recently wrote a piece for Flux Magazine - an online magazine in the UK - about the appeal of dystopian fiction for women. Well, that was the brief given to me. I did not think I could speak for all women so I wrote about why this type of fiction appealed to me.

Here's the link:

And here's the text reproduced below if you don't like clicking on random links.

Utopia – is it a good place or perhaps a state of mind? Somewhere inside of all of us, do we strive to be better? Do we search for that physical place so beautiful to take our breath away? Do we also seek a mental space where the things that made us afraid, sad or angry no longer exist? Is happiness a state of being, a pursuit, a choice or something that just happens? What is it to be a moral person in a good society?

I begin with these questions because I believe these are at the heart of why dystopian literature can be so appealing – to women, to young adults; in fact, to anyone fascinated by what makes individuals and the world around us tick. This is more so when we are watching some of our greatest fears playing out around us in real time. We search for meaning, for truth, for role models to emulate when we face hard choices in our own lives. Sometimes it is a conscious quest for escape, or for answers; sometimes not.

I don’t profess to be an expert on the reasons why dystopian fiction is growing in popularity, particularly among women and young adults. But I can share why I became an avid reader (and writer) of these types of stories in my teenage years into adulthood and that may offer some insights into the trend.

My genre of choice was dystopian science fiction – novels, short stories and films. What captured my imagination the most was the use and abuse of technology especially AI and cyberpunk, and life in controlled societies, especially those reacting to a new development or 'game changer'. What makes us human and what takes that away.

Ray Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man collection of short stories has given me life-long uneasiness over ‘smart’ houses. Ursula Le Guin, one of my favourite writers, and her story The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas especially stood out as a philosophical masterpiece exploring what was wrong with a world where happiness depended on the suffering of others. And P.D. James’ The Children of Men is one of the most believable dystopian books ever written purely because it rings true about how governments and people could react the way the author describes. There are so many more.

What I read and wrote was shaped by what I saw around me. Reading books about nuclear weapons during the Cold War just before the Berlin Wall came tumbling down, I am certain I might have been the only teenager designing fallout shelters in the early 1980s as a ‘choose your own topic’ school science project. That said, I was not alone in writing stories about worlds struggling in the aftermath of apocalyptic wars.

Context is everything for both readers and writers. I do not think this is a new phenomenon. Stories written in ancient Greek times, such as the play Antigone by Sophocles, were magnifying glass reflections scorching the earth - illuminating the fears of the people of the time, who were surrounded by near constant war and subjugation between nation states.

Dystopian fiction, for me, shed and amplified light on certain societal trends that, if they were to take a wrong turn might make what I read more than just fiction. Is it art imitating life or life imitating art? The trends that troubled me the most were focused on those failing to remember the past and being condemned to repeat it. It does not surprise me that Orwell’s 1984 and Atwood’s Handmaid’s Tale are being read and re-read by many now. History is strewn with examples of societies filled with oppression and the literature written at the time that helped to provide a yardstick of the truth. Timeless classics.

What might happen (now and) in the near future if power was concentrated in the hands of an elite few and those with that power took away our freedom? This is a key question I am exploring in my fifth novel, The Peithosian Gift.

The story was born out of a conversation I had with a close friend on an epic road trip. Wondering whether growth of consumerism could be or was being used as an opiate to control the masses, we talked about how persuasive advertising and propaganda could be and how some people seem to be more easily persuaded than others. In my usual tangent style, I speculated about a ‘what if?’ question around every living thing having a will that could ‘push’ ideas onto another living thing. From there, the seed grew into the idea of the push and pull of Nature, and a bunch of people who had a gift and, by the time we reached home, I had the shell of a story that turned into The Peithosian Gift.

The novel is the first in a planned speculative/fantasy series about two warring families who possess the power of mind control. It tackles a range of philosophical questions and moral dilemmas, including whether mass mind control is good or bad for society. I am writing the sequel currently and cranking up the volume on aspects of this theme. For example, I wonder whether a lack of choice can be genuinely accepted to be a form of happiness, whether seceding decisions (consciously or otherwise) to someone or something else can make us content because it is easier than having the free will to choose. Don’t even get me started on how algorithms could be used and abused in this context – that’s a commentary for another day.

Utopia — is it a place that cannot be?