The decline and decline of GOF

The cost of not living up to the expectations of others.

 

Taking a different point of view

The decline started early and I take full responsibility. My parents did their level best to raise me as a sociable, successful and communicative contributor to Australian society.  It is no reflection upon them that they failed. Many of the principles of life which evolved in my young head as I wandered alone through the Victorian bush just happened to be poles apart from those of my dear parents.

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My parents decided sixty years ago that sending me off at the age of five to the local Yandoit Primary School for one week of initiation would act as a kick-start to my academic learning.

I took the more instantly rewarding view that the 12 year-old girl assigned to chaperone me was far more interesting than anything being written on the blackboard.

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My parents believed that unquestioning adherence to their brand of Christianity would provide the most structurally sound framework for me to live my life on Earth, but more importantly it would guarantee a front-stalls ticket to the heavenly afterlife.

I progressively formed the view that except for teaching the Ten Commandments, organised religions were a divisive sham, and attachment to any particular brand was not a prerequisite to being a good human being.  I could not discover any evidence in the natural world which surrounded me that there was a possibility of life after death.

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The White Hills Technical School Headmaster apparently expected much more from me.  He generously pasted the following unsigned 1963 end of year character reference in my report book which conveyed the idea to potential employers that I was worthless.

I took the point of view which I now hold with even greater conviction that Headmaster Robt. M. Wiseman was a disgrace both to his profession and the ancestors who bequeathed to him that surname.

Robt. M. Wiseman’s gift to GOF.

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My father believed that joining the secret society of Freemasons was the best way for me to enhance my career prospects and social status.

I chose instead to walk in the opposite direction and take complete responsibility for my own success or failure.

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In 1974 my Public Service employer in New Guinea generously promoted me from doing rural development field work to a much more highly paid administrative position in town.

I took the view after just six months in office that I would use my newly acquired executive powers to post myself back to the bush from whence I came to work with the people in the place that I loved, and in doing so relinquish the higher salary and all future prospects for promotion.

(It is a very special time for me and Mrs GOF at the moment as we read our daughter’s continuing series of stories about ‘returning home’ at the age of 30 to this place she never knew.) (here)

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My capitalist society believes that accumulating wealth and expensive houses and possessions should be amongst the highest priorities in my life.

I chose the view that this is a totally ludicrous and mindless preoccupation best left to others.  Beyond having a roof over my head, a modest financial reserve and some land from which to make a living, I don’t give a rat’s arse about company shares, financial indices, interest and exchange rates, negative gearing or any other form of accounting trickery.

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In accordance with my strict Rules of Engagement with Humans, I occasionally tolerate visitors to GOF’s Paradise.  Some fail to see the natural beauty of the landscape or appreciate the sounds of silence, instead preferring to take note that our mains-powerless home is of inferior quality and size to their half-million dollar residences in town, and they conclude;
“The GOF’s live in squalor in the middle of the rainforest.”

Plumbing held together with Araldite superglue.

Insulation falling off the verandah roof.

Lichen farm on the roof.

Snake-shit stains on the verandah wall.

I promise I’ll clean up the snake shit……everything else will take care of itself.

Mrs GOF and I built and furnished this little home with our own four hands in 1983 for the cost of just $8000.  It, like us, is now showing signs of age.
It has survived three major cyclones and many other gales, been struck by lightning, sheltered us from 150 inches of rain every year, kept us warm through thirty winters, been a safe haven in which to raise a child, and provided a barrier most of the time to tree snakes who also like to call it’s roof space home.

I take the view that it would be a fitting end if, shortly after Mrs GOF and I fall off our respective twigs, our house collapses of exhaustion from a job well done and also returns to the earth from whence it came.
“Resale value” is something for others to worry themselves sleepless about. I don’t give a rats about that either.

So as you can see, my life has been a series of abject failures to live up to the expectations of others.

Regardless of all the other bloody stupid mistakes I’ve made along the way, you cannot begin to understand just how happy, fulfilled and contented this makes me feel.

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