What greater joy can there be than to sink from the cruel world of stupidity and woe on to a snug, familiar pillow as the mopoke sings softly in the darkness outside? What more blessed state can there be than sweetly dwindling consciousness, where without trousers and upholding nothing, one surrenders to eternity for a while and is no longer a Jew, a Muslim, a Catholic, an Australian or whatever, but simply a weary soul? If we are to be touched by the healing miracle of oblivion, it is better that the mental and cultural contraptions of identity loosen and slip away during the descent. You can't take it with you. To descend into heaven for a while, we must free ourselves from our own grip, from our own group, from our obsession with our own story. Not only do our bodies require rest but our innocent animal souls need respite from the trouble of human self and the burdensome riches of cultural inheritance. ". . . And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept: Untroubling and untroubled where I lie . . ." – I Am by John Clare.

So off we float and down we go, leaving the world of bombardment behind: the media warnings of catastrophic fires, the didactic tales of ruined lives, ruined rivers, poisoned communities, broken economies, human depravity, injustice and misery, perpetual war and frenzied overpopulation — stories unleashed upon the common man in the name of care, responsibility and freedom of information: an ongoing tag-team lecture by expert public voices who, by virtue of media magnification, outnumber the obscure passive wretch 10,000 to one. To make matters worse, the entertainments that may have previously helped to offset all this grim intensity in the public discourse, and consoled or enchanted, are increasingly irritating to the common man. Freakish crudities, deceptions and aggressive hoaxes of unprecedented awfulness are launched against the hapless citizen each day as a new wave of pushy, fame-crazed narcissists posing as artists loot and scrape and scramble for content and attention. In the face of this, it is understandable that the soul might sometimes want to scream or cry or fall asleep in its pitiful trench. At least there's independence in sleeping — and satisfaction in the knowledge that sleep is a self-made liberation that works at the end of the day. In dreams may be some chance for truth and joy. It might not halt the onslaught of dispiriting news, but it may help to water the garden of dignity and imagination. But soon the sleepers must "come to" and get up — and pick up the contract and take up the rucksack of culture or religion and proceed into the world as if everything is normal. They must reconstitute themselves over a cup of tea or coffee perhaps and remember what the world seems to be on about and recall what it is they must do. It all comes back and soon the radio is reminding them that the world is in dire trouble and it's all a terrible mess. And so the bombardment starts all over again: the traffic, the news, the conflict and the full catastrophe. Across the planet one tribe is crushing another tribe. The innocent dreamers are now back to the business of being Catholics or Jews or Tamils or Muslims or whatever; dragging ancestry, customs and all the unique cultural gifts, blocks and blind spots that their histories have bequeathed to them.

As if being a plain human wasn't difficult and wonderful enough, people have felt it necessary to construct and cling to glittering existential add-ons, to gorge their minds and to make themselves more secure and special. In so doing, they have managed to turn the human world into a lurid, overwrought imbroglio and the natural world into a tragedy. Perhaps a plain life without an overblown ancestral story and religious tradition is too meagre and raw for most; perhaps too lonely and vulnerable, living from breath to breath with no sacred texts, rituals or costumes, no grand ethnic themes, no taboos or traditional enemies or heathen others and no group called "Us" to belong to or fight for in the war against "Them". None of that for the plain human . . . just a body and a soul surrounded by nature, humanity and a big, wide earth. English author Lynne Truss tells a good story about Them and Us. It concerns an Englishman who is shipwrecked and marooned on a remote island for 30 years. Finally, he is discovered and, before sailing back to England, he invites his rescuer sea captain to view the three buildings he has constructed on the island. First he proudly shows him the home he has built for himself and the captain is duly impressed. He then leads his rescuer through the jungle and shows him another large building he has made. "This is the club I belong to," says the Englishman proudly. The captain is astounded. They tramp on through the undergrowth until they come to a clearing with another large building. "And what's this you've built?" inquires the captain in utter amazement. The Englishman turns to him slowly and replies in a low and serious voice: "This is the club I don't belong to." I have been publicly criticised in the most spiteful and petty way for having substantially lost contact with my family of origin, as if it were a sin, a shameful dysfunction or a disabling sadness. An individual who out of necessity and for the sake of survival turns away from nationality, culture, religion, family or marriage is not easily understood or forgiven by the majority, who defend and cling to such things so vehemently.

Yet to turn away and leave is not as difficult or unnatural as it might seem. Nor does it constitute a crippling loss or a breakdown or an illegitimacy. Some people travel light. My children have too many loose threads in their ancestry to care much about cultural inheritance — threads that tangle and fray all the way back to China, Scotland, Ireland, Finland, Poland, Holland, England, indigenous Australia, Germany and heaven only knows where else. They have no logo, no shares in any great cultural franchise with stories of tragedy and triumph, and don't have much in the way of extended family. None of this to enshrine and uphold. They are unadorned earthlings. Human nature is their story. The spirit of country runs out of the earth and the air and into their bodies like a mystery. This is their inheritance. It is no virtue, no deficiency and no advantage; this is simply their lot. I see them asleep at night, these beautiful earthlings; their faces still so glowing and open and young. There are many of them in this world and in this land. When they awaken they will create their own way. Heaven forbid that they should ever know the sleep of fear that the young Bill Harney knew, as the great cultures with their great pride, great ideas and great identities hurled their great madness down upon each other.