Christmas Reflections

             CHRISTMAS IS A SEASON NOT ONLY FOR REJOICING, BUT FOR REFLECTION’

                                                                                                – Winston Churchill

Christmas is again rushing up fast, heralding that time of year to review all that has gone before, and what is to come. A time to reflect about the meaning of this period, particularly what happened on that day a long time ago.

It’s a time when family and friends come together and have a festive and merry time. But Christmas is also for contemplating the Christmas spirit, one of giving and forgiving, a time when the love of our fellow men should prevail over hatred, bitterness and greed.

However, if the average person was asked to reflect about the essence of Christmas, there well may be an absence of these deeper thoughts. Answers may surface relating to gifts, parties, shopping, getting drunk at the office party, seeing family, the joy of going away on holidays, a break from a tedious tense job.

In today’s busy world, it’s easy to lose sight of the true meaning of Christmas. Amidst the food and drink, friends & family, how much time have we left to be more humane and kind, considering those not as fortunate as ourselves, that is the unloved, unwashed and unwanted.

Is today’s Christmas season a time of doing not thinking? Are we preoccupied with lists of presents, choosing a suitable one for ninety five year old aunt Maud, puzzling what to give a ten year old as a Kris Kringle, fuming at having to give a present to a foul mouthed uncouth in-law, toting up the massive entertaining costs, trying to find a reasonably priced gluten free plum pudding.

This is not the end. We then have to buy all this stuff. Impatiently searching for a scarce parking space, running from shop to shop, maxing out the credit card, despairing when we can’t find the present our beloved spouse really wants, being furious at missing the free two hour parking period by one minute. And so on and so forth, it’s madness with no time for quiet reflection, it’s simply survival.

Our kids do have a ball, they get lots of presents and junk food, see their cousins. Some even get carted off to see the Myer windows. But are they thinking anything spiritual? Of course not, it’s all about toys and a cool dude in a red suit. To quote one little tacker. “I learned in Sunday school today all about the very first Christmas. You see, there wasn’t a Santa way back then, so these three skinny guys on camels had to deliver all the toys! And Rudolph the reindeer with his nose so bright wasn’t there yet, so they had to have this big spotlight in the sky to find their way around.”

Yep folks, it’s all about the money. Christmas is way too commercialized. The true purpose of the holiday, once termed a holy day, has been lost. It’s crazy and crass. Any deep reflections of business are how to sneakily expand the shopping season. One study calculated that a quarter of all personal spending takes place during the Christmas shopping season.

What about when it’s finished, can we relax? No we can’t, there’s still a final task. We need to deal with the unwanted carelessly given gifts, which are returned, sold, or re-gifted. In one survey, 15% of respondents were unhappy about their gifts, 10% could not remember what they had received, 25% five percent said they had re-gifted their presents, 14% sold the items, 10% tried to return them to the store, and 5% returned the gift to the giver.

But there’s more. We spend weeks stuffing wrapping paper, packages, bottles and cans into our garbage bins. We clean up the house, scraping food muck from the grandkids off the tiles, cursing the wretched child who vomited their fourth helping of pudding over the carpet, also the same about drunken old uncle Bill who spilt a bottle of port over the rug, wishing we could thump the cousin who fired a nerf bullet into our kid’s eye, while the stupid parents simply looked on. Then we again climb in the car and go to the New Year’s sales to repeat this process.

I leave you to reflect on these reflections.

Merry Christmas.

The Ticking Clock

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The coffee and company has been fun. It’s Thursday and I’m  pedalling up the final hill of the ride with the guys. But there is a niggling problem in that the pain is has returned. It was fine during the ride, an easy short one because I haven’t been on the bike for three weeks, having spent a fortnight travelling around the Flinders Ranges. I’m not sure whether it’s a sore throat, chest or whatever. All I know it’s a burning sensation in my chest or lungs, which gets worse as I finally puff my way to the top. Then it subsides along the level track and I slowly pedal home.

I’m thinking it’s a good thing I am seeing my doctor tomorrow. The realisation is finally sinking in that something is wrong, but I don’t know exactly what.

Two months ago I had contacted a severe cold and bronchitis, which left me with massive coughing fits and croaky vocal cords. At that time, I got the chest pains on hilly rides, but I put that down to my sore throat. I also started to get the pain and started having breathing problems each fortnight walking up from Joliment Station to the top of the city to attend a meeting, again putting this down to my throat.

I thought that a fortnight in the dry air of the Flinders Ranges would clear up my throat and I would be back to normal. But walking one day up a lookout the symptoms appear and that’s when I get nervous, because my throat is getting better, I should be cleared out by now, but I’m not.

After we return home I make the appointment, trusting that Dr Cameron will prescribe some magic potion. He listens to my story, checks my chest and blood pressure which are normal. Then he starts writing pathology scripts and prescriptions.

“I’m not quite sure, it could still be your throat, chest or maybe a virus.”

He pauses, “It could be even something to do with your heart, don’t forget you have had Type I diabetes for thirty five years.”

I quickly protest. “But Cameron, I control it really well, look at my results, my blood tests, my chlorestoral tests, my blood pressure, all within normal ranges.”

The foreboding response comes back. “Often it doesn’t matter, even well controlled diabetics are prone to heart conditions, it unfortunately comes with the territory. But don’t worry overmuch, get all the tests done, we will discuss it next week.”

I am worrying a bit thought, especially as one script he gives me is for nitroglycerine spray for under my tongue if I get a sudden chest pain. This is the sort of thing I see in movies where people suddenly reach for their pill for under the tongue before falling to the floor with a heart attack. This is maybe my ‘oh,oh, moment.’

At home I start phoning, needing to make appointments for blood tests, an ECG, a chest Xray, an MRI for my lungs, and a heart stress test. The clinic is helpful over the next couple of days, ringing through the results which are all clear, which is kind of reassuring.

The big test is on Tuesday, when I do the heart stress test on the treadmill. As I step on the machine I’m confident that this will be an easy one, after all I regularly walk the dog, go cycling and do much heavy gardening, achieving my 15,000 steps daily. I’m super fit, aren’t I?

As the treadmill picks up speed I’m not so sure. The first minute is all right, a  peaceful stroll. Then the speed picks up and I start puffing and panting, and after the five minutes is up, I am totally stuffed and collapse onto the table while the doctors take final blood pressure and heartrate readings. I suspect what they will say, because I have been looking sideways at them as they point to the screen and mutter seriously between themselves. ‘Look at his rising blood pressure, check out the curve of the graph.’

The doctor ushers me into his room, I suspect that this is when my life will change.

The verdict is pronounced. “You have a heart problem. We don’t know exactly what until we do an angiogram. An artery may just need widening, it may need a stent, if it’s bad it will need bypass surgery. I’m booking you in to Epworth in the morning.”

In a daze I wander out of the centre and adopt my usual behaviour in stressful times. Finding a coffee shop to mull over my suddenly altered situation over a mug of strong hot coffee. I urgently need to mentally process this unexpected and unwanted deluge of information, I need to think it through, I feel like an ancient computer trying to sort out this bucket of data into some sort of logical format. I’m in the middle of busy Box Hill Central, people shopping and socialising, but I’m alone with my thoughts.

My first thought is how to tell my wife, I know she has been worried. The same with my son and daughter. I will have to  ring my sisters, they both have blood pressure problems, there is a family history of heart problems, they should be warned about me increasing their risk factor. I remember the last cycling group coffee break, where in the context of our friend Nick dying we agreed that we just don’t know what is around the corner, and hence the need to make the most of every day. This conversation was somewhat theoretical at that time, now it’s uncomfortably making sense. I make a mental note to get back to Buddhist meditation classes, this always helps me to think clearly. I need to talk to my GP, to make sure that the heart surgeon I am being referred to is competent.

That afternoon I see my GP , Dr Cam, who reassures me that Dr Chris the surgeon has indeed a competent pair of hands, and he would have referred me to him. We make an appointment for next week to sort out the vast array of paperwork, he also repeats the news that at age 70 I am one of the few few fortunate long suffering diabetics who only now has developed a heart issue. I don’t know if this makes me feel happier or not.

It’s the next morning and I’m walking into the Epworth admission area to undergo the angiogram to see exactly how my arteries are pumping. I’m worried because of the uncertainty, not knowing what will be found, how long I will be there. I’m somewhat rusty at this hospital stuff, my last admission being thirty five years ago at the old Diamond Valley Hospital when I was diagnosed with diabetes. Normally I’m the one visiting friends, standing by the bed not in it. I’m hungry, not being allowed food, hoping that the long acting insulin from the previous night will keep my sugar levels stable, not wanting a hypo on the operating table. I feel vulnerable being naked under the hospital gown, not looking forward to having my groin shaved.

Dr Chris comes in, a cheerful young guy. He explains the procedure, again stating we won’t know the next step until he sees the artery blood flow. Then I’m wheeled to the operating theatre, down long corridors, marvelling at how smoothly the trolley castors roll. The operating theatre is fascinating, I’m surprised at the number of staff there,  I idly trace the power cords and connections, I marvel at the multi jointed framework holding the massive X’ray machine, trusting that the bolts are high tensile steel, I don’t fancy the thing coming down on me. I guess this is just to distract myself. Being a writer, and viewing life through a pen, I even start mentally drafting this story. The it’s game on and Dr Chris starts pumping dye into my veins, and I watch my arteries pumping away on the big screen next to the table.

Four hours later and I’m being driven home, feeling a lot happier. Dr Chris has discovered that my Left Anterior Descending artery , the one supplying most of the blood to the heart and cheerfully described by surgeons as the “widow maker” is 90% blocked. But it can be repaired with a stent, requiring only one overnight hospital stay. He will do this two days later on Saturday. I’m feeling happier now, because at least I know what is wrong and that it can be fixed. I’m keen to get home and fire up my coffee machine.

I spend the next two days taking it easy as directed, doing a lot a thinking about my new lifestyle, glad that I went to the doctor when I did, not leaving it until maybe too late. There is not a massive lifestyle change to make, I already exercise, eat healthily and control my weight. The inbuilt diabetes risk factor is an unwelcome fact of life, but one I just have to accept. I tell myself to make the most of every day, but not just think this principle, actually put it into practice.

It’s Saturday morning and I’m back at the hospital, actually looking forward to the operation as it will clear the way to get on with my life.

It all goes as planned. I’m prepped, wheeled on the smooth castors to the same operating theatre, even the same staff are attending me. Dr Chris inserts the cable containing the stent into my wrist and I watch on the screen as this wire gets poked up my arm artery, over my heart and down into the blocked part, a somewhat curious experience. But Dr Chris seems to know the way, deftly pushing the wire through my body, until he finally pops the stent in to place, withdraws the wire, and I am the dubiously proud owner of a 35 mm           . I idly consider asking him could I keep the wire as a spare brake cable, it’s most likely high quality stainless steel, but I’m not sure if this request would be complied with.

Then it’s back to my room and I spend the time reading and late into the night I start to scribble my story, thinking again how all through this time, with all the procedures, I have been planning how this bit and that would fit.

But I also realise at the end, that I have no profound words of wisdom to pass on, no shattering revelations about how my life has changed, it’s just something that happened.

Maybe it’s best summed up by a piece of a poem I wrote a couple of years ago.

Is there a purpose, any rhyme or reason?

Who cares, all end at the final portal

None can escape, like it or not

The snuff man is nigh, gently beckoning

Patiently waiting, waiting, waiting

So start the race, begin the journey

It’s the only one that counts

Life’s a bitch and don’t we know it

Way too short and way too hard

The bad is bad, but the good is good

You gotta get in to get out

 

The Lost Recipe

There comes a time when we all actually get serious about cleaning out our “stuff”, items we no longer need, but still retain for various obscure reasons.

We recently helped my daughter and partner move house and I was amazed at the amount of “stuff” they had accumulated after only eight years together. This prompted me to get serious about getting my own house in order, sorting out my historical detritus.

It’s a complex, difficult process, more emotional than physical. Particularly with sorting through old items of one’s parents. It’s as though your childhood is finally slipping away into the darkness, it’s a type of guilt about disposing of items which once meant something to them. But there is little stuff that I would personally use, and I know my children would not be interested in these superfluous snapshots of family history.

With Dad, I have many memories and reminders. The piles of his writing, the boxes of slides, and a few treasured old tools. With mum, it’s not so easy, she was mainly involved in the garden club. But thinking about her life, if there was one particular remnant I would choose to mentally retain it would be her cooking. It was her role in the family. The Sunday roasts, the apple pies, but particularly her famous tasty Christmas pudding.

From a young age I looked forward to Christmas day on my aunt’s farm on the Mornington Peninsular.  For lunch, the huge dining table seated a horde of assorted uncles, aunts, grandparents, cousins, friends and other hangers on, to consume a massive meal.  After the main Christmas course, all would keenly await the highlight of the day – the grand entrance of the pudding.  This icon would be carried into the room by my mum, the maker, and would be flaming with lashings of brandy, (in itself a fire danger in the old timber cottage.)

We would devour the pudding, hoping to get a thruppence or sixpence, which sadly we had to return for next year’s pudding.  There were second helpings, laughter and compliments to mum that this was her best pudding yet.  Then onto the second highlight of the day, giving out presents.

This ritual lasted for decades.   Faces changed, older family died, cousins brought new partners, grandchildren arrived, but mum always made the pudding.  In October, the annual process would begin.  Mum would spread the ingredients on the old timber kitchen table, and clamp on the heavy cast iron hand mincer. I played a critical role as the suet mincer, laboriously but proudly mincing up a huge pile of suet, at that young age not knowing what this tough sinewy stuff was.  Mum would start up the big Sunbeam mixmaster; we would all give the mix a stir with the old wooden spoon, throw in the money and make a wish.

Dad’s role was to maintain a steady fire to steam the pudding for eight hours. Our old house in Clifton Hill had an outside laundry with a huge copper boiler..  He would rig up a device to support the pudding by its cloth loop at the right height, and every hour would stoke the fire and top up the water.  Finally the pudding would be hung in its cloth ball in the laundry until Christmas day.

The huge family gatherings finally ended, but mum still made a smaller pudding for the immediate family.  After she died, dad continued the tradition until he died.  All this time, I never actually knew what the pudding contained, as mum refused to give away her recipe, and dad continued this secrecy.  We were simply happy to enjoy the rich sticky tasty treat.  When he died I found the recipe, scribbled on a piece of tattered paper in an old diary.

By that time I had forgotten about the suet, and was horrified to see what we had been eating all those years —  slabs of saturated fat, plantations of sugar, chocolate, gallons of alcohol, all bound together by healthier mixed fruits, but topped by a sugary creamy custard sauce.  Great for me as a diabetic.  My wife was horrified at what her mother in law had fed her. I thought it best to keep quiet about the huge tub of lard in mum’s fridge, used to baste the rich Sunday roasts, which all enjoyed.

In honour of my dear old mum, I made her pudding, only once, the first Christmas after dad died when the recipe came to light.  It was not as tasty as mum’s, as I left out the suet, and went easy on the sugar, but my family enjoyed it and I had fun telling the kids tales about their gran and pop and aunt May’s farm.  It brought back happy memories of our big family, now dispersed, and about our times on the farm a long time ago.

The recipe?  Long since gone.  I recently spent hours searching through old recipe boxes, through my parents’ papers, and I couldn’t find it.  I would not have thrown it out, and it must be somewhere in the house, and may turn up one day, maybe my kids will find it when I go. But in the process I had a beautifully poignant time, trawling through mum’s old recipes, dad’s old stories, ancient photos and the memories of my early life.

Out of curiosity, I googled “old fashioned plum pudding” and hundreds of hits came up, all with the same type of ingredients, including the suet.  This was slightly surprising as I thought mum’s recipe was unique, but clearly many mums in that era were busily boiling up puddings pre Christmas, and their little kids were busily mincing suet. But I guess the eating environment gives each pudding its own unique flavour.

In mum’s memory here is an old imperial recipe which from my early memories seems to most resemble her one. For the fun of it, I may make it one Christmas, and we would greedily and guiltily consume the sinful product, but I reluctantly think not. Maybe a synthetic suet pudding will suffice.

 

The could have been mum’s Christmas suet pudding.”

4 oz plain flour

2 oz dark chocolate grated

1 teaspoon mixed spice

6 oz fresh white breadcrumbs

10 oz suet ground

8 oz brown sugar

2 oz dried apples and apricots

2 lbs raisins, currants and chopped dates

2 oz hazelnuts, walnuts and almonds chopped

zest of one lemon and orange

2 teaspoons of vanilla essence

1 teaspoon almond essence

4 large eggs

1 tablespoon honey

qtr pint dark rum or brandy

Ya Gotta Get In

Progression                                                                    Bruce McCorkill November 2017

Conceived, formed, born

Mystical gateway gently opening

A turmoil of forms, spilling

Onto the carpet, answering the call

Seeking the distant door

 

The lucky ones run

Fleet of foot, fast and sure

Dancing, bouncing, playing on the pile

Deft scampering from door to door

Positive pleasurable progression

 

The hopeless hapless try, intend

But get mired in the mud

The carpet can be treacherous

Sticky tentacles reaching up

To suck the unfortunate

Down into the morass

A miserable angry sodden trudge

To a mean shabby sunken exit

 

The middlings – a great messy mass

Strive to do their best

A confusion of aimless ants

This way, that way, diversions, tangents

Crawling and scrambling, sometimes dancing

Striving to avoid the suction of the bog

A journey to some meaning somewhere

 

Is there a purpose, any rhyme or reason?

Who cares, all end at the final portal

None can escape, like it or not

The snuff man is nigh, gently beckoning

Patiently waiting, waiting, waiting

So start the race, begin the journey

It’s the only one that counts

Life’s a bitch and don’t we know it

Way too short and way too hard

The bad is bad, but the good is good

You gotta get in to get out

Where do I belong?

Where do I belong? For me this is a fraught question, as it is for many migrants.

When the migrant ship Australis slowly manoeuvred out of Cape Town’s docks in December 1974 and set off for the open sea I stood on the deck and watched as the majestic Table Mountain, under the shadow of which I had been born, receded into the distance. I felt an enormous sense of relief and I vowed never to return. Then the mountain disappeared over the horizon and I felt as if I had escaped from a prison. I couldn’t stand the place, with its racist, authoritarian government and its ultra-conservative, pious Afrikaners, who had as much compassion for people of colour as a predator has for its prey.

I have now lived in Australia for more than sixty percent of my entire life, so this is clearly where I belong, right? The places of my youth have changed beyond recognition, so surely I now no longer belong there. And yet, I am not always sure where I really belong. The place where one has lived as a child and as a young person is indelibly engraved into one’s psyche, regardless of the passage of time. Its tendrils retain a firm hold over the years. And so it is with me.

What is it that binds us forever to the places of our youth? It is the landscapes, the shape of the trees, the native flowers and birds and animals, the smells. It is the accents and the unique local sense of humour of the people. Even after forty years away my heart still soars when I hear Cape Coloured people speak their distinctive Kaapse Afrikaans, or when I hear the clicking sounds of a black person speaking Xhosa or Zulu.

A few years ago I borrowed my brother’s car and drove along the road between Gordon’s Bay and Hangklip, near my home town of Somerset West. The road winds its way between the ocean on one side and steep mountains on the other. As a young man I went there nearly every weekend, having barbecues with friends or girlfriends, snorkelling and sunbaking.

I spotted some wild proteas on the slope of the mountain, near the road. When I stopped and walked up the slope I suddenly smelled the aroma of the fynbos, the local vegetation, and was overpowered by the familiarity of the smells. I can’t even remember having ever registered these smells when I was young. I was so excited that I kept sniffing at the plants. Then I realised if anyone spotted me they would probably think I had escaped from a mental institution.

During the forty plus years that I have lived in Australia I have naturally grown to love the smell and the shape of the gum trees and I adore the sounds of the warbling magpies and currawongs. They have also become a part of my psyche.

When I was working at the Glen Waverley Library five years after I had arrived in Australia, I came across a book called Wild Australia: a view of birds and men, with paintings and drawings by the Australian artist John Olsen. His illustrations struck a strong chord within me and I realised for the first time the extent to which Australia had become “my place”.

At the time I was a complete ignoramus as far as art was concerned and I had never heard of Olsen. I wrote to him that same day and explained how I had struggled to come to terms with Australia’s animal and plant life and landscapes, which differed so much from that which I had grown up with. I told him his art work had captured the essence of Australia’s places and it had made me realise that I really felt at home in my new country.

Olsen responded:

John Olsen letter 11.2.80

Ironically, when I am traveling in South Africa these days and I see a eucalypt or a callistemon with its red bottlebrush flowers, I immediately long for “home”. Such is the ambivalence of my belonging.

A couple of years ago I caught up with Johan, a university friend, in South Africa. It was the first time I had seen him since I had left my homeland all those decades ago. We had lost touch with each other when I departed, but now we were overjoyed to meet again.

“It’s so good to see you again after all these years, Tiens. I had heard somewhere that you had gone to Australia and I’ve often wondered how you were going there and what you were doing.” Then he added, “So when are you coming home?”

And for a little while there I felt I was ‘home’.

The writer Gillian Slovo, daughter of a South African political refugee, described this ambivalence perfectly in an article in The Bookseller of 31 January 1997:

North London is where I’ve lived most of my life. But there are things about South Africa that feel more like home to me … I have to deal with the fact that, like most exiles, I am at home in two places, and a stranger in both.

My children do not suffer from the same ambivalence as their father. When my son Neil was six years old I took him and a couple of his little mates to the local swimming pool one day. They were all sitting in the back of the car. I overheard one friend asking Neil, “Why does your dad speak so funny?”

“How do you mean?’ asked Neil.

“He doesn’t speak the same as us Aussies.”

“Oh,” Neil replied. “That’s because me dad’s an Afro. And me mum’s a Pom, but me – I’m an Aussie!”

The marvels of modern medicine

In 1983, while working in Port Moresby at the National Library Service of Papua New Guinea, I contracted a terrible ear infection. In time the pain almost drove me insane. Blood, pus and black goo leaked from my ear all day and night. I had to sleep with my head on an old towel and I lost my hearing completely in the infected ear.

Over the next two months I tried two types of ear drops, went to see the doctor five times, underwent an ear syringing, completed five full courses of four different antibiotics and had three injections, with absolutely no effect.

An acquaintance at the University of Papua New Guinea, who had heard about my ongoing problem with the ear infection, rang me and told me that a certain Dr Ghosh, an Indian ear, nose and throat specialist, was in town on a temporary training attachment at the Port Moresby General Hospital. I promptly went to see my doctor and asked him for a referral to see this Dr Ghosh.

On a steaming hot day in March, nearing the end of the wet season, I walked into Dr Ghosh’s office, introduced myself, and told him, “I’m getting really depressed about this ear infection, Doctor. The damn thing appears to be incurable and the pain is driving me around the bend.”

Dr Ghosh raised both his hands as if to fend off my words. “Depressed? Depressed? My dear fellow, there is no need to get depressed. This is the Twentieth Century, after all. We can now cure almost any infection!” I nodded and kept my disbelief to myself.

The doctor proceeded to peer into my ear. “Ha!” he exclaimed triumphantly, after a minute, “no wonder the antibiotics have had no effect. What we have here is a fungal infection, not a bacterial one. Oh, no, no, there are no bacteria in that ear. Only fungus.” He then proceeded to tell me with great merriment how he had recently cured a young fellow’s nose problem by advising him to get married! It was with difficulty that I managed to hide my lagging confidence in the good doctor.

He wrote out a prescription for anti-fungal drops, which he handed to me. He noticed that I was looking a tad sceptical. “Oh,” he said, brimful of confidence, “you use those drops and within three weeks’ time you will say to yourself, ‘My goodness, Dr Ghosh has cured me!’”

Having no alternative but to hope desperately for a miracle cure, I thanked him and set off to the chemist to get the anti-fungal drops. As I was leaving his office he shouted after me, “Depressed? Oh, no, my dear fellow, no need to get depressed! This is the Twentieth Century, after all!”

The prescription I collected from the chemist was for Tinaderm drops. I carefully read the instructions on the label, which stated that Tinaderm would cure things like tinea, foot rot and crotch itch. There was no mention of using them in one’s ear.

I had little choice but to trust Dr Ghosh, so I gritted my teeth and put a few drops into my ear, repeating the process the next morning and the next evening. After two days I woke up in the morning and discovered to my amazement that my ear infection had vanished completely.

“Oh, the marvels of modern medicine,” I mused to myself. “No, no, there was no need to get depressed.”

 

The Eye In The Sky Bruce McCorkill

eye in sky

 

Big brother–a pervading presence in our sky

Possessing an insatiable need to know

He requires us all to meekly comply

 

Do we ever wonder why?

Or do we just leave it so

Big brother–a pervading presence in our sky

 

How many times do we try?

Resisting his relentless undertow

He requires us all to meekly comply

 

Our private selves are just a lie

We secrete our lives in a steady flow

Big brother–a pervading presence in our sky

 

His watchers, all so cunning and sly

Data banks stretching row after row

He requires us all to meekly comply

 

When we all finally die

Where will our secrets go?

Big brother–a pervading presence in our sky

He requires us all to meekly comply