The Great Dislocation
On fire, systems, downfall and rebirth
Riding high, literally. My morning dead legs (cruelly mocked by an unnamed colleague) had revived in time for the trip home, possibly buoyed by my buoyed butt, having adjusted my saddle height upwards prior to departure to allow for better leg extension.
I was flying.
The wind gently caressed my carefree, mostly hair-free scalp. Now in someone’s slipstream, now overtaking, now checking blindspots, now navigating the pissweak rises and falls that make Melbourne such a great place to cycle. Human, contraption and surroundings, moving in harmony. A functioning system. On reflection, there were a few warning signs if I’d cared to look. More than a few. But that wasn’t on my mind at the time. I was getting the job done.
~~~
John Birmingham recently wrote a short, on point piece about our predicament. He talks about the friction native to any system, noting that “when it’s working, the results are worth the heat.”
You’re getting somewhere despite the resistance. When systems begin to fail, though, friction stops being a manageable cost and becomes the dominant feature. Energy accumulates with nowhere to go, building pressure until something breaks. And when it breaks, it breaks catastrophically. Political systems, social systems, mechanical systems—the process of cascade failure is consistent.
Is it just me, or does it feel like our most eminent leaders across government, industry and the arts have all been through some top secret training involving a board game where the aim is to take as much as you can for you and your allies as quickly as possible while ensuring that the system that feeds you stays juuust far enough from collapse to allow the game to continue a little longer?
Birmingham credits Canadian PM Mark Carney with gifting us a term for the violent discontinuity currently driving the accelerated collapse of our natural systems.
The Rupture.
~~~
I often find myself drawn to blue sky, big picture thoughts. I zoom out. One might generously if snobbishly call this systems thinking, but I hasten to warn readers I am not formally trained in that craft (call me ST-curious). It strikes me as a useful stance when you’re dealing with complicated stuff like fire, climate change and human behaviour. Lots of moving parts, highly divergent spatial and temporal scales, interactions and feedbacks aplenty.
What is the fire system? All the things that cause it, that affect it, that are affected by it? That’s quite a long list.
What are the right scales to deal with it? (Jack Pascoe had thoughts on this during our recent conversation)
What is going on with the fire system? Is it intensifying? Is collapse or rupture in the works?
~~~
Revealing the full details of my bicycle accident may undermine my next promotion case, so let’s just say it started with a teeter and was followed rapidly by complete and brutal collapse.
Surreal is one of the words I keep returning to when reflecting on it, and it makes me think that most of the time most of us are not well equipped for quick and dramatic change - thankfully. But we might do well to track down, listen to and if possible exchange ideas with people who see and study this kinda stuff on the regular.
I suspect many would agree that ‘teeter’ is a mild word for the kinds of perturbations we are seeing in our natural, social, political and economic systems right now. Does this mean that collapse will inevitably follow, as it did for me on my pushbike? Well, I’ve teetered before without crashing, so hopefully not. And the time scales are quite different too (I hope).
Total loss of control was another noteworthy aspect of my humbling. There I was, up, then there I was, going down, bike clattering, metallic drink bottle falling out of my bag, face gently bouncing along the ground, lovingly protecting my helmet from the full impact of the fall. There was never a question of bracing myself or trying to fall well. I guess something like that must have happened though, judging by the odd position from which my arm refused to budge.
Before I noticed all that I managed to pick myself and my bike and bag up off the bike path, spy some red drops hitting the pavement and aforementioned items, pull off the helmet, confirm my face as the source of said iron-containing, nucleus-free cells and plonk myself down beside the bike path. I was in a daze.
Thankfully I had a miracle machine in my pocket. I unsheathed it and called my wife. How good is being able to reach out to loved ones in a crisis! Open lines of communication are precious, and loss of comms can be disastrous. We established that she was on a tram heading back from the city with our daughters but it might still be some time before she could get here. Would she drive us to the hospital? Should I take an uber? The phone connection with my better half gave me a hit of irrational confidence. I politely waved off a few passers by who inquired as to my wellbeing. I bore and still bear no ill will to those that just kept going.
I also reached out to the cheeky colleague who’d made fun of my dead legs earlier in the day. They happened to live nearby and knew their way around a bicycle and - I hoped - a bicycle accident. Don’t bother with an urgent care clinic, get to emergency where they got you covered for scans, was the message.
At some point in between the regular check ins with my wife - possibly even in the middle of one - I decided I’d better call an ambulance. Shortly after doing so I was joined by one and then another passer-by who kept me company, gave me some nurofen, and even checked me out for signs of concussion (the second was a doc). They kept watch for the ambulance too. I am very grateful for their kindness.
Disasters can bring out the best in us, eh?
It was disconcerting reaching down to my elbow and discovering two distinctly separated points, where usually there is one. Thankfully I was wearing my UniMelb Science hoodie so I was not in a position to investigate more closely. When the ambos finally came they sliced it up (the hoodie, not my elbow), and to mine and my wife’s relief we discovered that the skin wasn’t broken. But there was definitely a problem - a dislocated elbow.
I am reminded that the term ‘Great Dislocation’ has been thrown around a bit in recent years. Some half-baked googling reveals it’s been used to describe the changes set off by COVID-19, the coming changes to be wrought by AI and robots and the Soviet Collapse of the 1990s.
Great Dislocation is probably too lofty a term for my little injury, but I’ll certainly take it over The Rupture.
~~~
I am so grateful for the incredible skill and care of the two ambos and the various hospital staff at St Vincents who looked after me. I can’t imagine the system functioning any better than it did for me on this occasion. I’m told not everyone has such good fortune.
First responders. People who move towards a crisis to help. People who support those affected by a crisis. This behaviour is truly amazing, heartwarming stuff. It feels so human, so essential, so right. Doing what the situation requires. And yet the actions of these handfuls of individuals can feel like a drop in the ocean compared to the monumental forces so regularly unleashed upon us.
I already alluded to my feelings of helplessness about the recent fires in Victoria in the preface to Tim Neale’s guest post here the other day. What is the point of research when forces far greater are at play? What is the point of putting out fires or patching up the injured when you know that the system is just going to throw more of the same (or maybe much more of something much stranger) at you?
Clearly, in my opinion, we need to take seriously, understand and confront the forces that are driving these changes, these ruptures, these dislocations. Is that research? Is it direct action? Is it getting involved in politics, organising or community organisations? Is it doing something collective and creative? (yes please) Ok, it’s probably not writing a blog. So sue me.
It’s strange to be in a position where you can just vaguely make out the contours of a terrifyingly huge, complex, utterly beautiful storm of activity that surrounds and forms and informs you. What the hell do you do with that information?
~~~
I got a copy of Cat On The Road To Findout for Christmas. As a teen, Yusuf Islam / Cat Stevens had already tasted pop success (and excess - he casually mentions indulging in parties, drugs and orgies. I don’t know why I’m shocked, but I am!). But then he was laid low by tuberculosis and while bedridden he had a bit of an epiphany. He mellowed out a little, and went on a bit of a creative tear, putting out some of the songs he’s best known for. Each of my kids has heard my bedtime renditions of Moonshadow and If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out.
That’s it! My enforced break will allow me to find inner peace! I’ll recover, like Cat (I’m already stunned by my body’s gradual return to health), then I’ll explode onto the scene and put out my most influential, heart-rending work! (New papers on fire and climate change, I guess?) Ok, that’s going too far.
But one of the gifts of the end of year detachment from work is a chance to remember what it’s like to not be so deeply embedded in work. I am struggling to hold on to that feeling, and afraid that I will once more lose track of and forget the things that matter.
But I am somewhat heartened, looking back over the last few years - particularly since arriving here in Melbourne - that I seem to have smuggled some goodness, silliness, humanity and authenticity into a work world where these things are not always welcome. A commitment to resume my modest smuggling activities feels like an achievable goal at my current position on the wheel of Dharma.
And a much more achievable goal if I’m not the only one.
The trials, tribulations and great successes of Hamish Clarke - the smuggler!
He lived to tell the tale! And oh what a telling it was.