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The Age
3 days ago
- Politics
- The Age
This is fine: An existential guide to Australian politics
Albert Camus would have been a lousy goalkeeper. Think about it. The French-Algerian standing between the posts, his head in the clouds. Reports say the writer excelled for Algiers Racing Uni's First XI, but I have my doubts. Imagine relying on Albert as your last line of defence, the bloke spouting stuff like, 'The only real progress lies in learning to be wrong all alone'. Or: 'An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself'. Wake up, Albie! The ball is coming! Tuberculosis intervened, sadly, the goalie trading gloves for philosophy, plus those olive-green novels – The Stranger, The Fall – that ask the big questions. Each title has been a staple of high school and Existentialism 101. Not that Camus used the term. Indeed he rejected the e-word, preferring instead to forge fables around the incomprehensibility of existence. As that's the central plank, that irksome query about why we're here, and what we should do about it. 'Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is,' as Camus said. Which makes you wonder what we're meant to be. Precisely the conundrum heard in Canberra this month. Is it any wonder? How can a power bloc of two parties implode into a rabble, losing seats like musical chairs, going from Coalition to Noalition? Cartoonist Cathy Wilcox depicted a bisected couch, one parent per half, both insisting 'Mummy and Daddy still love you very much'. Question being, are Mama Ley and Papa Littleproud going through a break-up, or merely a break? Either way, whether this new reunion lasts, the existentialism burns deep, fanned by those pesky Camus questions. 'I can't go on, I'll go on,' as Samuel Beckett said, a handy left-hand opener for Trinity College, and another writer besotted by existentialism. Macquarie Dictionary defines the ideology as 'a group of doctrines – some theistic, some atheistic – deriving from Kierkegaard, which stress the importance of existence, and of the freedom and responsibility of the finite mind.' Existential first emerged about 1693 as an adjective for existence. A century on, Soren Kierkegaard co-opted the ism to refute the divine logic that Georg Hegel fancied, where the rational is actual, and vice versa. Lort, thought Soren: Danish for bullshit. In his milestone work Either/Or, the philosopher writes, 'There are two possible situations – one can either do this or do that. My honest opinion, and my friendly advice is this: do it, or do not do it. You will regret both.' Loading Remind you of anyone – federally, I mean? Hence the e-word's rise. Existential now applies to politics, the arts, deconstruction cuisine, eco-anxiety, and anywhere you look. Last year Flinders University revealed how doomscrolling – surfing online between Gaza and La Nina – breeds existentialism. Reza Shebahang, the study's lead, claimed the custom has 'dire consequences on our mental health, leaving us feeling stress, anxiety, despair and questioning the meaning of life'. Smart machines and AI inroads only deepen the abyss. Pushed to existential extremes, we feel like adjuncts to this thing called life. Avatars. Daydreamers in the goalmouth. Or characters living life forwards so that we might understand what we're doing in hindsight, to paraphrase Kierkegaard. If it's any comfort to party leaders, doomscrollers and general AI alarmists, remember that 'the key to being happy isn't a search for meaning. It's to just keep yourself busy with unimportant nonsense, and eventually, you'll be dead'. Camus? Beckett? Try Mr Peanutbutter, the easygoing labrador from BoJack Horseman.
Sydney Morning Herald
3 days ago
- Politics
- Sydney Morning Herald
This is fine: An existential guide to Australian politics
Albert Camus would have been a lousy goalkeeper. Think about it. The French-Algerian standing between the posts, his head in the clouds. Reports say the writer excelled for Algiers Racing Uni's First XI, but I have my doubts. Imagine relying on Albert as your last line of defence, the bloke spouting stuff like, 'The only real progress lies in learning to be wrong all alone'. Or: 'An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself'. Wake up, Albie! The ball is coming! Tuberculosis intervened, sadly, the goalie trading gloves for philosophy, plus those olive-green novels – The Stranger, The Fall – that ask the big questions. Each title has been a staple of high school and Existentialism 101. Not that Camus used the term. Indeed he rejected the e-word, preferring instead to forge fables around the incomprehensibility of existence. As that's the central plank, that irksome query about why we're here, and what we should do about it. 'Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is,' as Camus said. Which makes you wonder what we're meant to be. Precisely the conundrum heard in Canberra this month. Is it any wonder? How can a power bloc of two parties implode into a rabble, losing seats like musical chairs, going from Coalition to Noalition? Cartoonist Cathy Wilcox depicted a bisected couch, one parent per half, both insisting 'Mummy and Daddy still love you very much'. Question being, are Mama Ley and Papa Littleproud going through a break-up, or merely a break? Either way, whether this new reunion lasts, the existentialism burns deep, fanned by those pesky Camus questions. 'I can't go on, I'll go on,' as Samuel Beckett said, a handy left-hand opener for Trinity College, and another writer besotted by existentialism. Macquarie Dictionary defines the ideology as 'a group of doctrines – some theistic, some atheistic – deriving from Kierkegaard, which stress the importance of existence, and of the freedom and responsibility of the finite mind.' Existential first emerged about 1693 as an adjective for existence. A century on, Soren Kierkegaard co-opted the ism to refute the divine logic that Georg Hegel fancied, where the rational is actual, and vice versa. Lort, thought Soren: Danish for bullshit. In his milestone work Either/Or, the philosopher writes, 'There are two possible situations – one can either do this or do that. My honest opinion, and my friendly advice is this: do it, or do not do it. You will regret both.' Loading Remind you of anyone – federally, I mean? Hence the e-word's rise. Existential now applies to politics, the arts, deconstruction cuisine, eco-anxiety, and anywhere you look. Last year Flinders University revealed how doomscrolling – surfing online between Gaza and La Nina – breeds existentialism. Reza Shebahang, the study's lead, claimed the custom has 'dire consequences on our mental health, leaving us feeling stress, anxiety, despair and questioning the meaning of life'. Smart machines and AI inroads only deepen the abyss. Pushed to existential extremes, we feel like adjuncts to this thing called life. Avatars. Daydreamers in the goalmouth. Or characters living life forwards so that we might understand what we're doing in hindsight, to paraphrase Kierkegaard. If it's any comfort to party leaders, doomscrollers and general AI alarmists, remember that 'the key to being happy isn't a search for meaning. It's to just keep yourself busy with unimportant nonsense, and eventually, you'll be dead'. Camus? Beckett? Try Mr Peanutbutter, the easygoing labrador from BoJack Horseman.
The Guardian
19-03-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Ferocious, cheeky or ‘nightmare fuel'? Meet Rum'un, Tasmania's new AFL mascot
A 'cheeky' Tasmanian devil that poos out footballs, growls like Nosferatu and is covered in papier-mache-like recycled fur has been unveiled as the new mascot of the state's long-awaited AFL team. Rum'un, which translates to Tasmanian slang for 'an odd or eccentric person; a scallywag, or someone cheeky' in the Macquarie Dictionary, made his debut as the Tasmania Devils' latest recruit at an event on Tuesday evening. He sashayed down the catwalk at Hobart's Theatre Royal with a slow run-up before bending down and emitting a 'Rum'un' roar, echoed with delight by attendees. 'I've got a very sneaking suspicion that this move is going to catch on,' the host, Jack Riewoldt, told the crowd, as the Devil launched into side-stepping dance to the backing of drums. Sign up for Guardian Australia's breaking news email 'Bit of Raygun there from Rum'un, you beauty!' Riewoldt cheered. Rum'un was developed in partnership with the Tasmania-based Terrapin Puppet Theatre and input from schoolchildren across the island. His fur is made from recycled school polo shirts, track pants and disused backpacks. Lead maker Bryony Anderson said it was an 'unusual pairing' for Terrapin Puppet Theatre but the club was 'game to do it differently'. The nine-month long process started with a visit to a local wildlife sanctuary, discussing devil physiology, their threat to survival and what makes the animal unique. Anderson then visited 10 schools with green uniforms and received donations, which led to a week at a New Norfolk high school where students helped turn the items into strips of fur, which were sown on to the creature. It was a request from the students that Rum'un would do custom poos of the feathers or fur of opposing teams. 'The team will go out with all the stories of the schools built in [to the mascot],' Anderson said. 'We wanted it to be ferocious and punchy, not just big foam heads. We were told 'don't make it look like the Wiggles'.' Pointing to a article with the headline 'Australia horrified as Tasmanian team's mascot causes frenzy', Anderson said 'in Tasmania, there's quite a few people that'll be chuffed with that'. In coming weeks, Rum'un will embark on a tour across Tasmania, meeting communities across the island and representing the club before its planned AFL men's debut in 2028. Sign up to Breaking News Australia Get the most important news as it breaks after newsletter promotion The Tasmania Football Club chief executive, Brendon Gale, said the new recruit would 'be a great beacon of our club across the state'. 'The creation of Rum'un reflects our club – uniquely Tasmanian, handcrafted and created with grit and determination representing our whole island,' he said. 'Rum'un is also a little bit cheeky. These characteristics are all true to the Tasmania Football Club, a club that represents our whole state and who does things our way.' Social media users had a mixed reaction to Rum'un. 'It's a pinata,' one TikTok user commented on a video which showed the devil ingesting and excreting an AFL football. 'That mascot is actually nightmare fuel,' another said, 'kids are going to be terrified'. 'This is legitimately cool. All the people cringing at it aren't having fun, but I am!' another user commented, while one simply said: 'That's fucked. I love it.' The release of the name and look of the mascot comes a year after the Tasmania FC revealed its club name and colours. The club has attracted 207,000 founding members before its AFL launch. On Tuesday, the Devils refreshed their $10 membership offer which attracted significant support last year.
