Idealist; one guided by ideals;

The Michael Clay Creativity Index (M.C.C.I.) was at an all time high. Consumer confidence was robust and shareholders in Michael Clay Creations (M.C.C.) were optimistic. There was every expectation of a hike in share-prices following a long-overdue expansion into several key European markets. The Executive Director triumphantly proclaimed the news in a televised announcement, employing wartime terminology like “conquer,” “pre-emptive” and “destined.” It was predicted this development alone would be enough to continue the record-breaking growth-rate shareholders had enjoyed for the better part of five years. Life, for those involved with Michael Clay Creations, was good. Few could predict what happened next.

The M.C.C.I. was no stranger to corrections, its erratic fluctuations the norm for those acquainted with the company. The constant reversal of company strategy, combined with the regular bi-monthly release of a new “Five-Year Plan,” created an environment in which volatility was the norm. But even with volatility built into the share price, investors balked at the size of their losses. The market had no record of such an extreme correction.

Some analysts blamed the Executive Director. They claimed he was inexperienced and “beset by demons,” stating that the volatility in M.C.C.’s share price was due in large to a deficit in responsible management. Some even went so far as to state, categorically, that the Executive Director is “solely to blame” for the erratic peaks and valleys in the M.C.C.I., that they are derived from the “reckless following of irrational whims.” Senior Analyst and Columnist for the Australian Financial Review John Clarke wrote accusingly, in an Op-Ed piece irreverently titled “When Egos Go Supernova,” that “Executive Director Michael Clay’s penchant for existential crises is absurd. When the castle in the sky that he has built for himself evaporates with the ear-splitting crash of a bubble bursting, he will have no one to blame but himself.”

And yet, despite all of this, the strength and force of the correction surprised everyone, even the Senior Analyst and Columnist for the Australian Financial Review. Terms like “hellish,” “divine” and “retribution” were employed to describe the immense and awe-inspiring drop in the M.C.C.I. The 2007 Chaos Communication Camp Collapse would later become known as a textbook example of an over-inflated stock being brought, spectacularly, meteorically even, hurtling to earth.

He lay on the hard floor of the tent, weeping. This was not how things were supposed to be. Everything was wrong. All wrong. Where was his triumphant emergence into a life of glittering creation? Where were the trumpets heralding his arrival? He had always imagined himself a butterfly, and was saddened to discover he might only be a moth. The sheer immensity of this disappointment made him weep with ever-greater intensity.

A Letter to Shareholders from the Executive Director:

31st August 2007
Beloved Shareholders,

I am writing this letter to allay some of the fears you must currently be experiencing, and assure you of the company’s integrity in the upcoming quarter. While it cannot be said that recent events proceeded entirely according to the current Five-Year Plan (see Appendix 3A), we have confidence in the strength of our Earnings, and have spread our Assets across several classes and sectors to minimise risk.

The unforseen setbacks that befell Michael Clay Creations during our expansion into several key European markets were due in large part to Errors in Intelligence and Incorrect Analysis of the Requirements and Costs of Entering these markets. The markets, which at first glance seemed empty and under-served, were in reality over-crowded with market-native competitors offering services at-cost. In the face of this realization we were forced to admit that our previous Cost Analysis had been vastly underestimated. I can assure you that these errors have been rectified, the revised Cost Analysis included in the projections, and the new data integrated into the most recent Five-Year Plan.

As you will see in Figure 1.1, our projected earnings growth for the upcoming year remains above the index average and we are confident, going forward, of a reversal in the direction of the share price.

Yours Faithfully,
Michael Clay
Executive Director

She held him as he wept. She could do no more than that, but it was enough. For in that moment he loved her, and she him. The tent walls were a membrane that held in its nylon fibres all his despair and everything of her love. Her embrace a shield from a world that seemed so toxic to his ambitions and his dreams, and he gratefully, thirstily, sought solace in it.

“It’s too hard. I can’t do it.”
“That’s okay, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“Yes I do, I told everyone I was going to do it.”
“They won’t mind. No one expects anything of you.”
“There’s so much pressure, so much expectation of ‘greatness.’ Especially now.”
“Oh baby, you’re so young. You have so much time.”
“Do I?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t know. This felt right. I told everyone I was going to be so successful. They all believed me. How can I go back now?”
“… They’ll understand.”
“I just wish … it was easier.”
“Baby–”
“Why does it have to be so difficult?”
“I don’t know.”
“…”
“What can I do?”
“I don’t know. Nothing, I guess. It’s my problem. I just … I don’t think I can do it … on my own. I don’t think I can do it on my own.”
“I’m here.”
“I know. And I love you.”
“…”
“I sometimes wish that I didn’t want to be artistic, you know?”
“… Yeah, I know.”
“I wish I could be happy being a lawyer or a doctor or something.”
“No you don’t.”
“…”
Silence.
“… What are you thinking about?”
“I should have asked her. Before she died. I should have asked her.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Whether it was worth it, I guess.”
“Whether what was worth it?”
“This. Everything. I don’t know. I just … She tried so hard, you know. And achieved so much.”
“… Yeah.”
“But in the end it doesn’t matter, because …”
“…”
“I just wonder if it’s worth it, to try so hard.”
“It’s worth it if it means something to you.”
“Is it?”
“… I don’t know.”
“Neither do I.”

On Tuesday 7th August 2007, at 2:01pm, under the gaze of a late summer sun, two young travellers from Australia, one with aspirations of becoming a journalist; the other a documentary filmmaker; arrived at Finowfurt, Germany, a small town some 100kms north of the capital, Berlin. They caught the RegionalBahn from Lichentfeld station at 1:10pm, paid onboard, and alighted at approx. 1:59pm, the train running a full four minutes late. The budding journalist mentioned this and the young filmmaker exclaimed his surprise, referencing the usual punctuality of the regional German train network. The filmmaker wondered aloud whether this might be a bad omen for the tasks ahead. The journalist, some 2 years older than the filmmaker and female, leaned over and kissed the young man, she was here to support him, this was his quest.

Although the journalist was not naturally a superstitious person, she too was silently worried that the late-running train might be an ill omen. This worry was compounded upon their arrival at the Camp’s entrance; an entrance that could only be described as ‘makeshift,’ and then only if one was inclined towards generosity. Although expectations of the Camp were never put into words; their form never solidified with the vivid clarity of verbalisation; there was, between the filmmaker and journalist alike; an unspoken agreement on what the Camp should look like. The journalist expected the Camp; though she would never say it, and would later deny she thought the place ‘ill-organised;’ to be a hive of activity, “a network of inter-connected, related individuals humming with the unified goal of information sharing.” The filmmaker, though he never verbalised it, imagined “a bubble within which alternative ideologies might find expression, where the right to discover and to know through discovery might be encouraged, bolstered even.”

They both were shocked by the reality of it. The finely tuned engine of their imagination was instead a quasi-anarchistic and ill-organised collection of oddballs running aimlessly and without direction. The journalist mused it looked as though someone had put the proverbial among the chickens. The disappointment they both felt; the filmmaker for the obvious absence of documentary potential in the place, the journalist for the filmmaker, was massive. The filmmaker plastered what he thought was a stoic grin on his face; an expression that he couldn’t quite master and so looked as if he suffered from a severe case of indigestion, and wondered aloud whether they might be the proverbial in this scenario. The journalist leaned over to kiss the filmmaker once more; lingering this time, hoping this act alone might smooth his concerned expression and mask the dark cloudbank of worry that had formed in her mind. The filmmaker reached for the journalist’s hand and, grasping it tightly, set off away from the ramshackle entrance in search of “a half-decent patch of grass.” It was 2:29pm.

The filmmaker’s concerned expression lingered as the afternoon drew on and the cloudbanks of worry in the journalist’s mind refused all attempts at dispersal. The two set up their tent in near silence, wordlessly struggling with instructions for assembly that were in a language neither of them spoke; both carefully considering the way forward. The filmmaker, consumed with revising his plans and ambitions for the project, failed to notice the shift in the journalist’s mood. The journalist wondered, as she unrolled their sleeping mats and bags, if she had enough support in her for this trip. The filmmaker had always been ‘high-maintenance’ in her opinion; his thirst for external validation almost perverse in its intensity, and she wondered legitimately if she could manage the massive task of bolstering the insecure young man’s confidence. After much deliberation she resolved that even if she couldn’t, she would give her everything to the task; her love for the young filmmaker demanded nothing less.

By nightfall a cold front of anxiety had swept the cloudbanks low over the journalist, colouring her every thought. The filmmaker’s attempt at grinning stoically had disintegrated to the point where one might easily assume him to be suffering from a rare tropical disease or even a severe intestinal disorder. They had sex that night.

And soon his tears turned into something else. His embrace was hard, insistent. A transformation had taken place; distress had turned into longing, despair into desire. He pressed his mouth firmly to hers and kissed her, forcing his tongue deep into her mouth, his teeth pressing painfully against her lips. She wondered if she would get any joy out of this coupling. She supposed it didn’t really matter; this wasn’t about her. She could feel him now, straining through the fabric of his pants, his grip firm and purposeful, demanding acknowledgement. She sighed, and–

In the morning the crisp light of day made quick work of the temperature inside the tent. The filmmaker, sweating, untangled himself from the journalist’s embrace and crept outside. A sea of tents greeted him and the first few notes of computer-generated techno could be heard pounding away methodically in the distance. The filmmaker wondered whether the camp’s participants were at all bothered by the fact they were, almost all of them, walking clichés. It was 8:17am on Wednesday 8th August 2007 – the opening day of the 2007 Chaos Communication Camp.

Excerpt from the August 10th, 2007 edition of the Australian Financial Review:

The Supernova Aftermath
John Clarke

“And Lo! The fury of the heavens hath been unleashed upon the beast. Divine and Just his downfall; the very foundations of the market crumble beneath the monster’s dying throws.”

Perhaps you’re thinking to yourselves that the stock could go up again? Possibly you’re expecting there to be a silver lining to these dark clouds? Maybe you’re hoping that if you just hold tight to those now worthless shares you might still be rescued from the poorhouse? Well I’ve got news for you: it can’t; there isn’t; and you won’t.
MCC Shareholders should check they have the rope securely tied to the rafters before they step off the chair. After a correction so massive it could only be described as ‘biblical,’ there is no escape but to pray to the market gods that you’re not too highly geared, and lay off the imported cheeses for a couple of decades. The bloated, egomaniacal excuse for an Executive Director has led the company to the brink of destruction, and well, you were warned.
While it can be said that much of the current crisis in MCC’s share price may not have been the result of extreme mismanagement, there is one truth that Executive Director Michael Clay cannot escape—

The filmmaker sat under the canvas awning that served as a makeshift patio and stared blankly out over the camp, lost deep within his own thoughts. The journalist was still fast asleep inside the hot tent, and the filmmaker wondered how she could possibly stand the heat. The filmmaker had slept well after the excitement of the previous night, so it never occurred to him that the journalist might not have. The filmmaker sat, waiting for her to awaken, contemplating the road ahead. He soon became lost in fantasy, as he was wont to do, and began to visualise the glory and riches that he expected to receive upon successful completion of this project. All around him the campsite was slowly springing to life.

Several tents over, a man that could only be described as repulsive emerged from his canvas cocoon, coughing and spluttering like something must have died inside him. He was overweight, bearded, and the filmmaker swore he could see remnants of last night’s dinner lingering on his unkempt facial hair. With bloodshot eyes the specimen peered around, wheezing all the while, his once-white underwear now yellow with over-use, barely managing to hold in his massive bulk. The filmmaker silently congratulated himself for managing to at least maintain a mask of civility while he contemplated the monstrous thing, and then chastised himself. He had always had trouble restraining his impulses to judge – a serious flaw for anyone intending to make a career in documentary cinema. He resumed his flight of fancy, imagining himself at award ceremonies, giving acceptance speeches, buying a house, living happily ever after.

After a while, the heat inside the tent became too intense for the journalist and she emerged wearily. Carefully considering her surroundings, she leaned in to kiss the young filmmaker. The filmmaker said nothing, but smiled as her lips brushed his cheek, for she was part of this fantasy. For a time the pair sat beneath their tent patio and stared out at the scene before them. It would take someone familiar with the two, a parent perhaps, to recognise the expression that occasionally flickered across their faces. They would never have admitted, not even to each other, that they felt like animal enthusiasts who had strayed to close to the fence and had, unnoticed by the zoo personnel, fallen into the lion’s enclosure. It was 9:15am.

“Oh my god. It’s like something out a movie. It’s almost absurd. If you scripted this, no one would believe it. They’d all accuse you of writing characters that were predictable stereotypes.”
“…”
“But they’re really like this! Classic nerds!”
“…”
Silence.
“So where do you want to start today darling? What’s our plan?”
“I dunno. I need to check the schedule I guess. Find out what lectures are on. Find out if any of them will be actually worth going to.”
“Okay … what do you want for breakfast? We have cereal, an apple, and, um … sweaty cheese!”
“You know there is this word in German which, I think, really applies to my current situation.”
“Mmm…”
“Lust, L-U-S-T, but pronounced ‘loost’–”
“I think I’ll have the sweaty cheese and an apple.”
“–And loosely translated it means something like ‘desire’, but not quite. It has ties to ‘fun’ and ‘pleasure-seeking’–”
“Or maybe I should leave the sweaty cheese for you? I know you love it!”
“–And you use it in the context of “Ich hab kein lust fuer” … so-and-so. Well, babe, I really have kein lust for this whole thing, this whole … fucking … nerd camp, thing.”
“…”
“You know? Ich hab kein lust fuer das. ICH HAB KEIN LUST–”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, shut up. Fuck!”
“… What?”
“Oh, I don’t know … I’ve had very little sleep because someone kept me up half the night stroking his ego, and then snored his head off for the other half. I feel and look like shit, so I’m going to have a shower, a cold shower, mind you — after eating half an apple and a piece of sweaty cheese for breakfast. See if you can’t figure out why I might be just a little bit on edge!”
“… I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, well, sort your shit out.”

He watched her retreat with dismay.