Where Does The Buck Stop?

In the news read today, it was declared that Australian airport check-in staff now face 'air passenger rage", when confronted in disagreements over things like excess luggage weight, varying ticket entitlements due to a complicated pricing structure and impatience. ON another reference, a national airline blamed maintenance staff for the increasing occurrence of problems inflight delays and technical glitches of operating aircraft.

I was initially amused that the two problems were portrayed as obviously "not my fault, but always others". Ground check-in staff pointed their fingers at paying passengers and corporate management blamed their staff. I searched hard for a mention of possibly sharing the many facets of the two problems together by shareholders, management, operational staff members and customers. There is no team spirit in commercial Australia these days, underlined by a preoccupation with perpetuating the problems instead of focusing on workable solutions.

The two problems I read about were flagged about in a way that suggested that the fault lay with he other party - there was no hint of also examining one's self in recognising contribution to both the problem and solution. the way the media reported it was also one-sided; what happened to investigative journalism that took in aspects and views from all relevant parties?

After I read the two separate pieces in two different newspaper publications, I was left dry-mouthed that the buck was just passed on. Does this seriously reflect our society and the way it thinks, at both the group and individual level? To make money is to find solutions first. Problems encountered are interpreted at an intense level as "rage". Providing effective solutions is to dig beneath the symptoms and hype. I was surprised why no reason and background was offered as to why airline passengers are apparently getting more difficult to handle - could it be related to why there are more technical faults occurring with a particular airline.

A House in Goulburn

Lucia huddled on the rocking chair, warmed up and content. Outside the window it was as grey as the foggy cloudy overlay of the sky in June. The fireplace was not working but messed up with soot. Not that she cared. She had woken up with the radio station alarm announcing a hearty welcome to a day starting at minus five degrees.
Dawn was the best time, a quiet time without care, schedules and chores wating to be paid attention to. The steam of a freshly prepared coffee or oats boiling on the stove symbolised cosiness.

The house was solid brick. There is a comfort about countryside houses, Lucia thought. One that brought back memories of simpler times. One that fitted with the harsh climes and beautiful sceneries not matched in most capital city locations. She could see the bare branches of several trees outside the window, and the trellis pattern provided a sense of stark perspective. She could smell the wood of the house and feel the roughness of the open brick. She felt the house had as much character as she did.

Over toast and muesli, she mused about the path she had chosen. In the beginning, it was hard to resist the lure of the Big Smoke. At the end it was easy to forgo the false promises of short-sighted commercialism. Lucia recalled how she read about a corporate lawyer in Singapore giving up the apparent riches of a mercantile career to live the life of a hermit nun in a cave in Nepal. She also felt strong empathy for an ex-banker who was forsaken by her employer despite being on the apparently winning side of a mega merger of two companies. Society teaches so many to fall for doomed things, she thought. Life's potential in each of us was more fulfilled beyond the glitter of the momentary and the greed of the short-sighted.

Half-read books and various tapestries were strewn on the timber flooring. A neighbour unexpectedly dropped by to say hello and pass on some freshly baked muffins. "The wheat fields still have the frost on their tips", he remarked, having just driven in from Yass. The breath from his mouth showed up as thick as the mist surounding the inland valley town of Goulburn. Once there was much promise of this settlement becoming even the capital of the whole nation. Now it lay forgotten, apparrently in the middle of nowhere, and having an economy sucked off its vitality by drought and the dwindling interest in its pride and joy, the State police training Academy. The iconic Big Merino, really just a three-storey souvenir shop,had been resited away from the town's main thoroughfare. It was interesting that this had happened, just like the Hume Highway bypassing the place long ago, together with its droves of passer by traffic and spending.

Did it really mean doom and gloom? Lucia thought Goulburn, her adopted town, had a rare chance to go back to its roots. It must rely on its own character and stride out accordingly. It can offer a refuge to the tired souls from misshapen urban experiences. It can refresh young individuals who have aged unnaturally. It has the air quality that many in countries further north yearn for. It can provide retreats to nurture the inner self.

Lucia had a lift in her step as she walked out into her garden. The clear sunshine contrasted with the bitter cold. Yes, it can be unbearably hot in January here - and she decided to enjoy the cold air instead. Whatever disadvantages Goulburn has must be embraced and turned to an advantage.

Windy Cold

A throbbing pain on the left side of the forehead. Persistently.

Like moss embedded on to a branch or a wall, it seemed inextricably hopeless to get rid of it. It's like often bumping into the very individuals whom you subconsciously try to or hope to avoid. By chance or design, these very same persons have to turn up, to confuse, to destabilise and to create mischief.

The conspiracy of silence makes it inadvertently worse. Actual suffering of pain is supposed to be accompanied by perceptions of gain, but only in theory. I finally understand that silence can be deafening, when it is applied in a discriminate manner, to surprise when one least expects it.

Biting cold can be overwhelming, but when supported by the wind, the chill permeates.
When mixed with a sense of helplessness, one gulps for air, hopefully only in a figurative sense. It still feels real, like the rush for air from below a raging watery surface. There is truly a psychological and physiological urge to be freed.

I look for ways out. At times, the warmth I expect in normal protection mechanisms amazingly does not appear. Is this the onset of hypothermia? I require to encourage circulation and flow, and I may not even get a chance to break the ice. The attacks seem unrelenting.

Just when I am expected to give up, I get a second wind, not one from down the mountains but surging from within myself. It is the human instinct to rebel and renew when unreasonably pressed. It may have seemed physically impossible a minute ago, but at the point of no way out, the mental takes over, buttressed by the soul and inner determination. Extreme impossibilities bring out extreme solutions in me.

The throbbing has changed course and nature. It now becomes the sensation of overcoming anything in its path, including the windy cold.