Some images that we never quite saw the like of pre-Abbott:
Put out more flags. Dress armed public servants in strange paramilitary (almost) black shirts…. Change terminology a bit:
What a saga that nomenclature has been. I began teaching English as a Second Language in 1990, and also through M’s experience attaining citizenship – a five-six year process – saw a bit of earlier manifestations, as in:
- Department of Immigration, Local Government and Ethnic Affairs (July 1987 to March 1993)
- Department of Immigration and Ethnic Affairs (March 1993 to March 1996)
- Department of Immigration and Multicultural Affairs — also called DIMA (March 1996 to November 2001)
- Department of Immigration and Multicultural Affairs and Indigenous Affairs — also called DIMIA (November 2001 to January 2006)
- Department of Immigration and Multicultural Affairs — also called DIMA (January 2006 to January 2007)
- Department of Immigration and Citizenship — also called DIAC (January 2007 to September 2013)
- Department of Immigration and Border Protection – DIBP (September 2013 – present)
For some reason a poem comes to mind:
An ant on the tablecloth
Ran into a dormant moth
Of many times his size.
He showed not the least surprise.
His business wasn’t with such.
He gave it scarcely a touch,
And was off on his duty run.
Yet if he encountered one
Of the hive’s enquiry squad
Whose work is to find out God
And the nature of time and space,
He would put him onto the case.
Ants are a curious race;
One crossing with hurried tread
The body of one of their dead
Isn’t given a moment’s arrest-
Seems not even impressed.
But he no doubt reports to any
With whom he crosses antennae,
And they no doubt report
To the higher-up at court.
Then word goes forth in Formic:
‘Death’s come to Jerry McCormic,
Our selfless forager Jerry.
Will the special Janizary
Whose office it is to bury
The dead of the commissary
Go bring him home to his people.
Lay him in state on a sepal.
Wrap him for shroud in a petal.
Embalm him with ichor of nettle.
This is the word of your Queen.’
And presently on the scene
Appears a solemn mortician;
And taking formal position,
With feelers calmly atwiddle,
Seizes the dead by the middle,
And heaving him high in air,
Carries him out of there.
No one stands round to stare.
It is nobody else’s affair
It couldn’t be called ungentle
But how thoroughly departmental.
— Robert Frost
Now back to Tony Abbott. I rather enjoyed the forensic indignation of barrister Charles Waterstreet in today’s Sun-Herald.
The thing that stops Orator Abbott from becoming the Great Orator Abbott is his mouth, and the inability to control the words exiting from his mouth as his lips move. At almost exactly the same time as he was extolling Nazi secrecy against the look-at-me-propaganda-style of death cults, The New York Times editorial team were berating the Orator for passing the Border Force Act, yes, same one as last week, which provides two-year sentences on detention camp employees for talking about conditions in them, no matter how barbaric. Journalists are filtered to get on Nauru and charged $8000 for an application that might be rejected, no refunds. This is a farce of Orwellian standards