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HOMOSAPIENS ~ MAN THE WISE by Jeff Wefferson

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Homosapien title Dedicated to all the astronomers and activists of Earth, and life as we know it. Long may you live!!!

It's no coincidence that the man who did the most to awaken our generation to the awe and mystery of the cosmos was also one of the most ardent anti-nuclear activists the world has ever seen. Astronomer Carl Sagan made great contributions in the field of planetary sciences before his name became almost synonymous with extra-terrestrial intelligence. When he entered the realm of mass-communication with his comprehensively mind-blowing television series Cosmos, millions of star-gazers and space-cadets around the world came to love his New York accent and his waving arms telling us there were "billions and billions" of stars out there just like our sun. In our own galaxy. His question: so why haven't we heard from anyone else?


WORLD CUP FEVER by Tom Doig

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FIFA image FIFA 006: LICENSE TO YOB

A Kiwi theatre-goer gets caught up in World Cup FEVER!

by Tom Doig


I'm not a big soccer fan; hell, I'm not even an Australian citizen. So when I found myself at a friend's house waiting for the Australia-Japan game to start, I was barracking for Japan ­ after all, they had much better haircuts. But sport does strange things to people. By the end of the second half I was cheering the mighty Cahill, booing the Egyptian ref (bloody pyramid-builders!), spilling my beer - and when we won, I was ecstatic. Go Aussie! I mean,­ you Australians must be very pleased with yourselves.

They were. Biking home down Sydney Road, every driver was leaning on his car-horn, while blokes leaned out of car windows, waving Aussie flags and Aussie scarves and yelling "Go Aussie!" and "Aussie Aussie Aussie!" and sometimes "Aaauuussssiiiieeee!" Captivated, I biked past my house, following the jubilant traffic towards the city. In between the green-and-gold people hooting and hooraying across the road, there were dejected little clumps of Japanese fans waiting for taxis, immobile, face-paint looking incongruous and sad. When I finally headed home, nearly two hours after the game had finished, I was hooked ­ not on the soccer, but on the fans.

There's a derogatory term for people like me: "theatre-goer". It refers to people who go to big sporting events for the atmosphere, rather than the game itself. When I told some of my hippy friends I was going to Fed Square for the Croatia game, they were aghast.
"What kind of drunken idiot goes to Fed Square to watch sports?" they asked, horrified.
That's what I wanted to know.

To make it to Fed Square for the 5am kick-off, I stayed up all night drinking. When I got there at 4.30am, Fed Square was already full to capacity, closed off by policemen and security guards in bright yellow vests. I trudged excitedly through the mud down to the second screen at Birrung Marr. I got up close to the action, so close that each pixel was the size of someone's head, and when nothing was happening it was like a banal
acid flashback. Strangers hugged each other, and took endless pictures on their mobile phones.
The game - we didn't lose. The fans lost it. There was an impromptu victory parade on Swanston Street. A taxi had its back windscreen smashed in; a tram's glass door panel was shattered, and a few of the pizza cafes' glass facades had been fractured.

As the sun rose over Spring Street, a young guy scrambled up the windscreen of a delivery truck onto the roof, where he hollered and jumped up and down. Two more guys joined him, and the three of them jumped  and rocked the truck - fans on the ground rocked the truck - the cops charged in on horseback, hitting people out of the way.

By the time the celebrations made it back to Fed Square, the 8am spandex set were weaving through the staggering fans on their $4000 bicycles at full speed, dinging their little bike bells, nearly flattening the cops trying to direct traffic.  But the emblem of the anarchy was a rogue packet of crumpets lying in the gutter by Bourke Street Mall. A waste of good breakfast product ­ has everyone lost their minds?!

I resisted the urge to go to the Welcome Stranger, and pedalled shakily home to bed.

Before the Italy game, Elizabeth Street was a mess. Pissed kids bellowing what could only I've been ’Adavance Australia Fair'; teenage boys running up to any, every girl with Aussie face-paint, yelling ’Aussie!' and copping a feel; some dude with blood running down his painted cheek, strutting along the tramlines Å

I got to Fed Square nearly two hours before kick-off, but the cops had already closed it off. Walking down to Birrung Marr, I joined a mob who tried to rush Fed Square from the river side. We got past the first group of
security guards, ran up some stairs and hit the orange-and-white barricades.
"You're not going anywhere," the security guards said. "Get past us, and there's still two more barricades. Don¹t bother." I didn't bother. The atmosphere at Birrung Marr was electric. Whenever a shot of Guus Hiddink
came onscreen, screamed his name in unison.
Then we lost.

A tiny pocket of Italian fans bounced up and down, while everyone else went flat. Back on Elizabeth Street, a dozen hardcore Aussie fans chanted "Fuck the Italian bastards', before lining up for pizza. I headed to Lygon Street to watch it burn. Lygon Street didn¹t burn. There was just a few dozen Aussie fans chanting "get a fucking passport", a line of cops on horses, and a few Italian boys chanting "There¹s gonna be a riot".

A few of the Aussie fans mooned the Italians, and I was struck by something ­ not a bottle, but the fact that half the exposed arses weren't white! There were quite a few Aussie-born Viet and Chinese crew yelling angrily at the "wogs". These ABCs were angry, at something, and they had green-and-gold paint all over their faces. But it surely wouldn't have taken much for the rest of the mob to turn on them ­ video footage of an Australia-China table tennis final from the 80's would've done it.

As I was leaving, one of the mob¹s ringleaders came striding past me. He was about 17, wearing a long brown jacket and jeans ­ no green, no gold. He looked very pleased with himself.
"Have a good night?" I asked.
"Fucken awesome," he replied. "The cops can't pin anything on me. If they pick me up, I've only had two glasses of wine. I've done nothing. Now I've gotta get a taxi back to Eltham, to check in with my parole officer at 9am."

This guy was from a juvenile delinquents' correction centre, and proud of it; he is schizophrenic, but "fine as long as I take ma pills mate". I wanted to ask him what being an Aussie means to him; what he thinks of Italians; what he thought of Medina Cantalejo's decision - but it didn't seem relevant anymore.


eleven's picture

Coming Soon - 'The Man Who Never Sleeps' serialised e-book

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Man Who Never Sleeps title
 


Undergrowth.org presents THE MAN WHO NEVER SLEEPS A novel by Levin A. Diatschenko

“Trespassers wouldn’t understand.”

Synopsis
If you take thought as a tangible thing, imagine the clouds of thought hanging about our heads.
Imagine the roof of thought-fog hanging over our cities…
Beginning as a murder mystery the story unravels until it gradually unveils the origin and purpose of an organization so esoteric that it doesn’t even have a name.

Lars Yenin is an overworked family man, who never gets enough sleep. When he loses both his job and family, he lies down to sleep and doesn’t wake up. The mysterious coma continues for years. Two weeks into the sleep, another man who looks identical to Yenin arrives and takes over Yenin’s life. Within a short time, he becomes a world-famous occultist.

This new Yenin never sleeps at all.

Chaz Darf is a sorrowful emigrant whose only enjoyment in life is art. Most of his days are spent smoking cigars on the front steps of the block of units where he lives. Nobody knows anything about his life before he came to Australia.

When Chaz goes missing, and murders of seemingly supernatural circumstances take place, the police are left with only one clue: Chaz’s paintings, which clutter up his unit. Every painting is of the same subject: a beautiful but deformed woman. That’s not much help, though. What the police need is the help of an expert in the occult – they go to Lars Yenin.



The Man Who Never Sleeps is Levin A. Diatschenko’s first novel, a blend of metaphysics, mystery and science fiction. Since its launch in the Darwin Fringe Festival, followed with its nation-wide distribution, it has attracted an underground following of readers as diverse and individual as the characters in the book.

During the months of August and September, The Man Who Never Sleeps will be released in a serialised form on www.undergrowth.org, featuring new illustrations by the author throughout. Readers will be able to subscribe to a special email list to receive updates when new chapters are uploaded weekly at http://www.undergrowth.org/neversleep.

A preview chapter of the book's prologue is now available. Read the prologue here.

“The revolution begins at breakfast!”

Reviews “Darwin-based Diatschenko’s first novel instantly exposes the promise and talent we can expect from this young Australian.” -- Mary Polowski, STU Magazine.

“From vampires to sociological questioning, The Man Who Never Sleeps moves in a sequence similar to a dream, wherein the plotlines, characters, and their development is in an eternal state of change.”– STU Magazine.

“Starting out as somewhat of a thriller, the plot of The Man Who Never Sleeps quickly changes with various characters playing narrator, each more bizarre than the last.” -- STU.

“If you like your books starting with a murder mystery, developing into a kind of gothic horror, but with metaphysical links back to society and a little black humour on the side … then The Man Who Never Sleeps is for you!”—Jan Goldsmith, Published Or Not, 3CR.

“It deserves to sell to alienated urbanites the way Harry Potter sells to snot-nosed brats.”—Briohny Doyle, Voiceworks Magazine.



“Plus it’s got vampires. Intrigued?”—Briohny Doyle, Voiceworks.

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verb's picture

SPACETIMEMACHINES DVD LAUNCH

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Space Time Machines - Darwin poster SPACETIMEMACHINES > motion pixels in the shape of: > Pirate television stations in Italy > power hungry decepticons in search of uranium > microbiotic life on Mars > direct actions in the Central Highlands > squat art galleries in western suburbs > big brother and the death of reality > glitched out commuters > metaphysical hip hop in the northern territory > indymedia mash-up essays > Aboriginal guerilla newscasts > Ginsberg poetics > military entertainment complexities > aliens in the outback > an artist in love with a discontented muse > and a few doses of spiritual molecules...


Robin Mutoid's picture

The Year 2012 > by Robin Mutoid

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Year_2012_image Internationally respected co-founder of Mutoid Waste Co., Robin "Mutoid" Cooke is a sculptor, installation artist and visionary behind the annual Earthdream festivals in outback Australia uniting Aboriginal Dreamtime consciousness of the land with activist and doof music culture. Earthdream is a 13 year on-going experiment in the autonomous application of Lateral Governance systems within (and without) the activist community (Robin believes that the hierarchical systems are doomed to implode!) The philosophy of thought Robin promotes unites ancient tribal wisdom from Mayan, tribal and New Age circles, and tries to integrate it for the Australian counter-cultural community. Robin was recently showcased on the ABC's Stateline program, focusing on Mutonia, a large freak sculpture garden - including the 'Planehenge' sculpture - he has created over many years near Lake Eyre, providing a rich visual backdrop to his ideas and work. We present his provoking 2012 article here as a memetic bridge between cultures, from a white, anarchist elder of a tribe with no name, part of a global community still coming into focus.


Issue #6 - RANDOM MOLECULES

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Random flyer front Undergrowth #6 - RANDOM MOLECULES

From the quantum to the cosmic, chaos theory to chaos magick, political powerplays to psychedelic activism, free radicals and spiritual anarchism - beware a premature definition of reality.

 
Feature Writers: Rod Baker, John Pace, Rebecca Fitzgibbon, Tim Parish, Rak Razam, Claire Wren, Levin Daistchenko, Hakim Bey, Jonathan Arrow, Dan MacKinlay, Betwixt, Rumi + Hafez...


COMING OUT OF THE WOODWORK> by Rak Razam

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wall of doom
Twelve years after forest blockading began, conservation activists and loggers are still at odds amongst East-Gippsland's old growth forests, says Rak Razam. But the odds are changing.

"Last summer about 1:30 in the morning I was about 50 metres up [a sit in Ferntree forest] on a very big tree. A logger climbed up on top of the machine cabled to the sit and jumped on the cable. It flipped me over like a pinball machine, threw me into the tree and left bruises and stab wounds all up this leg - it was one massive bruise. And there I was hanging upside down with everything I had in the sit gone, and I'm screaming 'f--- offff... help, camera, camera!" Everyone else is 150 metres up the hill and I'm alone without a torch in the pitch dark, half way up a tree - and I'd just attached the safety, I mean, just, seconds..."


SIXTY DAYS at Camp Sovereignty > by Scott Foyster

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Sixty Days image

 

Sixty Days Reflections on Camp Sovereignty by Scott Foyster

"What you are a doing is a disgrace!"

The shrill voice of a lone dissenter breaks the somber mood of the early afternoon. One, two, three, four police surround the man and drag him off. Throughout the barage of abuse Aunty Beryl continues reading the list of Victorian Indigenous soidiers who fought to defend this country. There's over 200, all forgotten, all ignored in the ceremony which just happened down the road. In front of Aunty Beryl, three possum skins lie, two painted red, one yellow. They are covered in photocopied photos of the soliders and their families. There is also a massacre map of Victoria highlighting all the known places where Victorian Aborigines were killed between 1836-1851. The scariest fact is dot 33 which simply reads: 1842 Skull Creek, Gippsland- unknown number killed. Walking past the photocopies later I overhear Robbie Thorpe angrily musing on the numbers that could mean: tens, twenties, hundreds, a thousand. Annoyed, he walks off stopping at a photo of an Indigenous woman to aks about its origins.


ONE CUP > by Scarab Studio & Mutiny Media

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One Cup gif A short documentary film about Fair Trade and coffee farmers in Timor Leste. Filmed in the mountains of Timor-Leste January 2006, 'One Cup' offers rare insight into the struggles of coffee farming in the poorest country in Asia. Among the immense everyday difficulties described by coffee producer communities, health concerns are paramount.

Escape from Tox-City> by Floyd Davis

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The doors slid open at his approach. He squinted as he entered even brighter light. Quickly choosing a reflective wrap-around set, he slipped them on and headed for the entrance. The doors took longer than usual to open as he waited for the automatic debit to his account. Must be a malfunction, he decided. A synthetic voice sounded from above.


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