Imaginary Questions and the Relevance of Things

A lady sitting next to me in the waiting room of Aotea Pathology is browsing the Dominion Post. Lady Gaga, always upbeat, buzzes through the radio speakers. I smile - I’ve read that paper front to back. 
As I sit here, the question as to what really is relevant wanders my mind. The media that paints our world in all its (perhaps darker) colors has just been deconstructed in front of my eyes. 

Just as the diagnosis made me question what really matters, I wonder what really matters in the world,  who controls what really matters. After spending a whole morning tearing apart the term “news,” I’m no longer sure.

By the second day of the “Diploma in Multimedia Journalism” at Whitireia, we have begun delving into questions about how the world around us is generated and defined. I’ve been surprised and impressed by the overall caliber of the course and it’s students. It is clear they have deliberately chosen a diverse group of backgrounds to compose their student body. One student is a professional photographer, another has a philosophy degree, and another studied design and another business - I could go on.

An attempted self-haircut

Back to the waiting room. I imagine striking up a conversation with the lady on page 4. “Should National be able to get away with labeling quantitative easing “printing money” in the media, just to screw over the Green party?” I envisage asking. “Do you think the G8 referring the Syrian issue to Geneva stresses or downplays the importance of the situation? Isn’t it ridiculous that the fact that the US NATO forces finally handed over power today and it only got a tiny column at the back of the newspaper...?"

“Bethany, please;” a well-dressed man looks around the room. My mouth is stuffed with last night’s leftovers. I speed up my chewing and swallow. “Oh, yep, that’s me,” I smile at him. 

This week’s jab isn’t too bad – I brave looking down this time and see the blood spurting into the two regular orange and purple tubes. The needle pinches as it slides out and I’m all taped up, ready to head back to class.

We assemble back around the desks for class. I tug my sleeve down over the white surgical tape to cover my secret. Each Tuesday the waiting room will be my lunchroom, and I’m okay with that. 

And now, sitting here in this classroom I wonder again what is relevant – is news itself even relevant for everyone? 

When I was bound to the bed in the IC unit with a catheter in my bladder and face wrapped in bandages, did Peter Dunne’s blunders really matter?