RACHEL'S COLUMNS

These articles appeared in Rachel's column every Friday in the A3 section of The Age

When reality bites, blessed are the cheesemakers
26th November 2004

Don't stop munching your muffin, I'm just letting you know that as you're reading this, coral polyps on the Great Barrier Reef are getting their rocks off. These miniature one-celled creatures have a circadian clock that alerts them to the fact that they must reproduce. Once a year, every year, on the same month, at the same time – almost to the day – they know, as much as a polyp can know, that they have to spawn. I personally wish they'd stop because I'm sure their spawning squeals are keeping me awake at night, but I'm moved by their commitment.

If that doesn't impress you then ponder on the Fitzroy river tortoise and its headlining circus act of breathing through its backside. The Rheadytes Leakops is able to spend up to three days submerged, thus avoiding the gourmet palates of crocodiles. As it pumps water through its cloaca, (the combined genital and excretory duct) the surrounding blood vessels extract oxygen so it can survive. For me, what is remarkable about these two examples of nature's contract with PT Barnum is how simple and yet massively productive their brief lives are. I long for the predictability of the coral polyps' spawning and the masterful victory over its predator by the river tortoise's backside.

I know I know we live in times of great uncertainty and by now we should all be experts at it. But as I write, my body looks like the Christmas lunch tablecloth on Boxing Day morning – I'm covered with spots of undetermined origin. A friend tells me they're hives. "What have you eaten that's different to what you usually eat?" She asks, as if I'm four years old. "I dunno-I just eat." I reply, dribbling. My memory hasn't been very reliable lately, a naturopath suggested I try Gingko – a supplement that's supposed to help with memory and focus, the problem is I keep forgetting to take it.

Like everyone at this time, just weeks before Xmas, I'm about to implode. We're moving into another saccharine-filled, credit card propelled Christmas season without any of this year's big questions being answered. Where's Osama? Tony Windsor's alleged offer of an inducement during the federal election campaign-trick or treat? Does god communicate with us? Does He use Telstra or Optus and what plan is he on?

Last Sunday like two million other punters I bent out of shape with anticipation watching Australian Idol until the final moments revealed that Casey Donovan was the winner. The whole Idol schtik is delivered like a mythical odyssey with sprinkles of evangelical sherbet to maintain the high-pitch momentum. While Marcia Hines showed "grace and compassion" and Dicko encouraged the two finalists to "feel the glory", I could feel my adrenal glands squirting bigger and bigger bursts of their potent nectar as we were led like lambs to an SMS marketing slaughter.

Why must we be constantly steered to the sharp end of uncertainty? Every moment of our lives has been commandeered by television's illusion of reality. Regrettably that's how many people view their lives – they want variety, pleasure and excitement but nothing simple. We're in constant competition with ourselves to do more, to have more and to stuff as much foam filling into our designer-throw-cushioned days, as possible. Less is no longer fashionably more.

The Australian version of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy will go to air early next year. No doubt Aussie blokes will be begging to exfoliate and investing in Tahitian limes. Enough with style, talent and the inevitable water feature. I reckon we need a show about being ordinary – just plain human with flaws. I crave ordinary, it smells comfortable and familiar like yesterday's socks. I'm bored with uncertainty and cliffhanger finales that never quite fulfill my expectations. The players in Big Brother were ordinary people, but their actions were orchestrated by head-office decisions. No one lives in their pyjamas all the time only bothering to change if they're stepping into a Jacuzzi or dressing up like a monkey!

This week's sale of a 10-year-old grilled cheese sandwich (not a focaccia or open-rye or pannini) bearing the image of the Virgin Mary for $US28, 000 has given me new hope for the rise of the appreciation of the ordinary.