Heroes, criminals and victims of 2011

Heroes for 2011

My heroes for 2011 are Arnie and Maggie Gundersen of Fairewinds Associates who have gone over and beyond their professional mandate, and at personal cost to themselves, to ensure that information about Fukushima is placed in the public arena.

Criminals of 2011

Although there is no international law covering peace time genocide there should be. My candidates, if ever this law is put in place, are the Japanese government and TEPCO.

Victims of 2011

Absolutely, the children of Japan and then of the Northern Hemisphere.

A living, breathing child is the potential of the future, voiceless, unprotected and vulnerable.

Sadly, the most silent in this catastrophe are those who claim that they are right for lifers. If they truly were pro life then the outcry against the deliberate and conscienceless destruction of the innocent would have filled the vacuum of protest in the wake of Fukushima.

The children remain undefended.

Closing 2011 opening 2012

December 21, 2012, is predicted to be the end of life on Earth. It certainly seems that the majority, including the body politic and big business, believe this to be true because everyone is acting as if there is no tomorrow.

For myself, I doubt seriously that there is any universal design which will bring our species to a close. I do not believe that we will be lucky enough to be destroyed by a giant red planet lurking behind the sun, but 2012 will bring to an end many of the things we have taken for granted up until now.

We are likely to spiral into the abyss of 2012 carrying all the familiar baggage, and to enter 2013 lesser than we are now, bereft of health, wealth and happiness. If that qualifies for an end of world experience, then, yes, the scryers are right.

Einstein, I think, said that we will go out with a whimper not a bang, and I tend to go with this statement.

A bang would be something glorious, a thing of legend. As a species we don't deserve to be immortalized even in the untold story. With the way we treat each other we deserve to be chased into a corner whimpering and fearful, and left there to rot.

No species responsible for acts of gross stupidity like Fukushima, or for incomprehensible acts of aggression like war, animal abuse and bullying, deserves to be remembered.

The statistical myth that is Fukushima

After a little more look-see I discovered a video in which Arnie Gundersen refers to a model used to project the one million deaths from Fukushima.

Although I have a great respect for Mr. Gundersen, I do have a problem with the source he quotes.

Models are projections, nothing more, nothing less. They are the what if factor often present in the absence of raw primary data. They anticipate possible statistical outcomes only and should never be viewed as substitutes for actual research data. 

My personal feeling is that if we really wanted to understand the human toll from Fukushima, qualitative scientists like anthropologists should be hired to perform a long term observational study in the areas mapped by European tracking systems which followed the spread of radiation during March/April onwards.

I can guarantee that their outcomes would be horrendously higher than a million because of the cumulative nature of observational research, and there is nothing more cumulative than radiation - especially when it is still seeping, and will continue to seep into our seas, our air, and onto our land and food sources for an unknown period, perhaps decades.

*

The feeling among quantitive scientists is that we will never know if diseases are caused by Fukushima radiation or some other factor. Observationally, I would argue that we can by studying the society itself. 

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year

It's that time of year.  The summer holidays are almost here, along with Christmas and the New Year.  I've been delighted to see there's been a small run on both The Snowing and Greening of Thomas Passmore and The Grease Monkey's Tale over at Amazon of late, in time for Christmas presents or holiday reading, so I'll raise my glass and say Cheers to that. Of course, Snowing and Greening is very much a winter's tale, while Grease Monkey turns much of that on its head, so hopefully there'll be something for all, whether about to celebrate Christmas and the New Year through a southern summer or through a northern winter.

I'm taking a break from Blogdom for a couple of weeks, but would like to thank you for dropping by and say thanks for buying my books.   Here's wishing one and all, a merry Christmas and a happy New Year. 

May your days be many and your troubles be few;
May those you love always love you too.

Inside the Express packet is a white envelope and inside the white envelope a Christmas card.
page 224 The Snowing and Greening of Thomas Passmore

Killing the future one child at a time

Investigative journalist penetrates Fukushima

This video is long but is well worth the time. Translator provides English translation at intervals. I discovered it on Enenews.

40 Years to decommission Fukushima

40 Years to decommission Fukushima means in your lifetime, that of your child's, and possibly your grandchild's, the oceans and land in both hemispheres will be void of healthy foods and drinking water.

40 years means that no country's medical scheme will be able to cover the debilitating illnesses which will be common place, and deformity will become the norm.

40 years means that the Occupy movement is redundant because long before 40 years is up we will be equal - we will all be part of a new mutant species incapable of being occupied or occupying.

40 years makes the scientific and political dream of a human colony on another planet science fiction, because no system, not even a hermetically sealed one, maintains itself indefinitely, and the seed like its protectors and donors will corrupt.

40 years means that conspiracy theorists and world enders are trumped at the finish line. A hidden red planet which sucks the life off Earth, or a meteor devastation, or a super volcano will be a blessing, a quick end to a burdened body and mind.

40 years is probably closer to the truth than the Japanese authorities have ever come, but the news is a non-event, as if we are already drugged to the reality around us. We are like sheep to slaughter, unseeing and uncaring that in 40 years we may momentarily wake and ask, "Why did we not react? Why did we not respond to save ourselves from this?"

The above post is based on http://www3.nhk.or.jp/daily/english/20111215_04.html - NHK World release dated December 15, 2011.

The Mad Square

NGV Catalogue cover using Suicide (detail), George Grosz, 1916

As an 18 year-old studying for my Art and History of Art 'A' levels, I admired the work of George Grosz, Otto Dix, Wassily Kandinsky, Rudolph Schlicter... many of the artists who've since been lumped together as German Expressionists, but who also became directly or indirectly involved with Dada, Bauhaus, and the like - post-World War One, post-Blue Rider and all that.  For a while I tried drawing like some of them, and held onto one piece that was clearly influenced by the likes of Grosz, Max Beckmann and Georg Scholz .  (Took it out and dusted it down today, then promptly hid it back in my folio again.)  It suited the person I was at that time, and aspects of the world I saw about me.

Eats, Paul Burman, 1976

'Under my rule, it shall come to pass ... in this livery will I clothe ye.' from The Robbers portfolio, George Grosz, 1922

I was delighted, therefore, to be in Melbourne recently, shortly after an exhibition, which celebrates "modernity in German art" and places it in its historical perspective, was opened. The Mad Square features an impressively broad range of work, from Franz Marc, Rudolf Belling, August Sander, El Lissitzky, Erich Dieckmann, to name just a few.  The period from 1910-1937 is presented in paintings, prints, photogaphs, collages, films, sculpture, furniture, and well worth a visit if you're in Melbourne. It runs until 4th March 2012.

So many wonderful pieces.  By way of giving a taster, here are two of my current favourites:

 Self-portrait, Christian Schad, 1927

Triad, Rudolph Belling, 1918-19

Down at the Factory of the Imagination in November

Last report had Number Three novel at 67,000 words.  This report has it at 74,000.  That's not too bad, although a tad behind where I was hoping to be by this point in the year.  I had hoped all the words would be down, roughly in place, and that I'd be engaged in some glorious editing by now, but I'm not quite there yet.  Another ten thousand words should do it though.  However, the closer I get to the end of a project like this, the more frequent and more pronounced the self-doubts become.  The best antidote to this is in telling myself that every draft is a rough draft, and that it's the polishing that really counts.

Writers delight, it seems, in developing metaphors that describe the process of writing, and I've been likening where I'm up to recently with the sinking of a mine shaft (without the environmental damage).  Having invested a couple of years of time and creative energy in developing this manuscript because I believed the initial workings/the exploratory drilling looked promising, I sometimes worry that when I actually get to where I need to be with it there'll be nothing of value - nothing that I value.  No gems to polish, just a slag heap of ideas.

This being Number Three though, I remind myself that I felt exactly this way with Snowing and Greening and Grease Monkey too.  Ho hum.  Onward and downward.  Be sure and steadfast, and all that.  Let's hope thar's gold in them thar hills.

Another Earth directed by Mike Cahill

It was slashing down with rain when I was in Melbourne recently and, having already got a tad damp heading to the NGV, it seemed like a brilliant idea to spend a couple of hours in the cinema - the Nova in Carlton, no less. Another Earth was on the billing, and what little I'd read about this recent release intrigued me.

This was my first time in Nova, and I thought it an enjoyably retro experience - spot on for a wet, Saturday afternoon.  In fact, the young American couple who'd found their seats in the auditorium before us must have felt something similar, because they were busying themselves photographing the fixtures and fittings until we arrived, and then they cheered for no longer being the only patrons.

I thought we'd entered the wrong auditorium and were about to get another film at first,  because it seemed as if we were being shown the Another Earth preview - about the appearance of another planet, very close to Earth - except it was more depressing than I'd expected.  Wasn't sure what we were going to get instead - not Cars 2, I hoped.  Until it transpired that the preview was for Lars von Trier's Melancholia.

Another Earth is the feature film directorial debut of Mike Cahill, who co-wrote it with Brit Marling. She also stars in it, alongside William Mapother.  Great performances by both.  It tells the story of Rhoda Williams who, as a high school student out celebrating with friends, is driving home when she hears a radio report about the appearance in the night sky of another planet, which is, to all extent and purposes, the very image of Earth.  She catches sight of the planet, is mesmerised by it, and crashes head-on into the stationary car of Yale music professor John Burroughs, killing his pregnant wife and young son instantly.

Because she is under the influence of alcohol, Rhoda serves a prison sentence (thereby ending her prospects of becoming an astro-physicist and exploring the nature of the universe!), and the main body of the film picks up with her release 4 years later, telling a story of grief, loss of innocence, and the painful search for redemption.  If that sounds too depressing in itself, be assured that there is an energy and ambience about the film, and the portrayal of all the characters, that makes it compelling and ultimately life-affirming.

While the presence of the additional Earth adds some interesting elements to the story, this is not Sci-fi, and the storyline does not over-concern itself with too much pseudo-scientific justification of this - or the logical ramifications of it.  Another Earth affects towards Arthouse-on-a-small-budget, down to the scratchiness and muted colours of the film (although this might equally have reflected the age of Nova's projector) and the hand-held camera work, which I found irritating for a few minutes, although on the whole these combined characteristics add rather than detract from the experience.  On those occasions when I could suspend disbelief no longer and wanted to raise concerns about some of the logic flaws (particularly with the outcome), I found it useful to remind myself that the parallel Earth idea is, more than anything else, an effective device to explore a few interesting existential questions - a bloody big metaphor floating in the sky.  Namely, how we each choose to live our life, the ways in which we respond to regret, self-forgiveness, the notion of the life we would like to have... 

Well worth watching.  Even more so on a wet afternoon.

Are there gifts of radiation on your Christmas list?

In the rush to buy Christmas presents for those you love, you may forget to ask where the products were manufactured, and if the answer is Japan, were they shipped before 3/11.

This may sound strange, but anything manufactured or grown in Japan - after the Fukushima explosions which send radiation debris around the world on the Jet stream earlier this year - carries no guarantee that it is not contaminated to the point of injuring purchasers or users.

The unending log of lies both from the Japanese government and TEPCO, the constant alteration of research findings and radiation equipment readings, and the active suppression of information among Japanese citizens, should concern all of us at this time of year.

A gift as innocent as a Japanese manufactured camera or Japanese green tea could put a loved one at risk because there is no radiation monitoring of imports from Japan.

Yellow rice is a favorite dish on our Festive Season table, but I hesitate to buy fresh rice from the grocery store because of the level of contamination in Japanese rice, some of which has been exported but, seemingly, no one knows where to.

The amount of lies associated with the Fukushima cover up also suggests that companies, with the blessing of the Japanese government, are not beyond shipping contaminated products to other countries for repackaging, making it appear as if these are not from Japan. While there is no evidence that this is occurring, the idea set in several months back with a circulating rumor which suggested that products were being shipped to China for repackaging.

I would have put this rumor aside as a cheap shot at China-West trade, but given the lies, as I have said, I cannot help thinking that those who stoop so low to hide truth are capable of anything.

My Festive Season budget will be spent on products close to home. We have a great local meat supplier in Lake Land Meats, a Farmers' Market in town, and endless other suppliers of local goodies within easy reach. As for the yellow rice? I hope my dwindling supply of rice stocks in the pantry will see me through the holidays.

If you want to follow the Fukushima developments which could impact your day to day activities, visit Enenews and Fairewinds.

Forgive me, reader, it's almost two weeks since I last blogged.

It's not that I've been stuck on a desert island or anything, although I did have the plague for a few days and last weekend was spent (most excellently) in Melbourne. No, what it is, I think, is that the part of my brain which writes has been solidly engaged on Number Three - not to the exclusion of all else, but certainly to the exclusion of haunting Blogdom.  Usually, writing a post or two is a welcome distraction, but of late it's become a distraction I could do without.

That doesn't mean I haven't kept my ear to the ground, and I was interested to read an article by Linda Morris in The Age entitled Writers are authoring their own destinies online.  Through interviewing 'authorpreneur' Hazel Edwards and bestselling author Tony Park, Morris explores the "philosophical conflict" some authors feel about having to promote themselves and their work, and the benefits of this.  There was nothing I disagreed with in the article, but it did reinforce for me how difficult it is for the vast majority of authors, who don't make a living from their writing, to juggle bread-and-butter employment with maintaining an online presence to promote their published work while carrying on writing. Bugger the lack of financial remuneration, being time-poor doesn't help.

On another issue, it was good to hear that not all is doom-and-gloom in the publishing industry - although I don't doubt some publishers will be the last to admit as much (not least because it'd mean that the less scrupulous ones would no longer have an excuse not to pay their authors). Recently released Records of Earnings indicate that publishers are doing well out of digital sales - despite dire warnings from many that e-sales would sink them.  In The Business Rusch: How Traditional Publishers Are Making Money, Kristine Kathryn Rusch explores how publishers are indeed capitalising on this.  It's an interesting article and well worth a read.  (Thanks to Louise Cusack for the link.)

As for Melbourne, did some catching up, managed to fit in a visit to the flicks (Another Earth), a trip to the National Gallery of Victoria (The Mad Square exhibition), and had some delicious food experiences (Brunetti in Carlton, Grigons & Orr Corner Store in North Melbourne).  But more on that later.  I'll be back soon.  Promise.

We have a certain responsibility to these kids

We are into the first birth cycle of Japanese children since 4 reactors at Fukushima disintegrated in March 2011, promising to change life as we know it for most of the Northern Hemisphere over time.

The truth of what happened will become harder and harder to ignore as the cycle extends into the future leaving behind a trail of children with chronic and acute physical issues known as the Fukushima Syndrome - at least among the medical staff who will have to deal with these children far from the public eye.

Let us help you become addicted

It was one of those radio ads which you wish you could rewind just to make sure you heard correctly, to make sure it wasn't some spoof put on for your amusement.

The gist of the advertisement was, "If you are not on medication, and have never been on medication, contact us to test a range of free medications."

If nothing else, barring the spoof potential, this proves an old suspicion of mine. Pharmaceutical companies promote addiction.

I say this, because my ancestors lived into their 90s without ever taking a pill or managing their diets. Their children smoked profusely but managed to survive into their 80s despite the hacking coughs and patently bad lifestyles encouraged by the early 20th century. Even for them, pills were a rarity. Subsequent generations became enslaved to a bucket load of pills and did not do so well. Mortality rates, in some instances, dropped by twenty years.

On a more pertinent note, this was poor advertising copy. I understand exactly what the intent was, but the manner in which it was expressed reflected badly on the client because highly cynical listeners like me make toast of the content.

Cute or catchy doesn't make good copy. All writers fall victim to their inner stupidity, but this should not happen when someone else is paying the bill.

Teach your daughters to sing in silence

In her vision the old woman saw armies ranked against her Mistress, marching in lines one beside, one behind the other. Her heart faltered, stopped and beat again.

Her Mistress bent over her saying:
Daughter, my star is setting.  I too have dreamed your dream and felt the sun upon my limbs at midday.  But even in my decline I am powerful.

Teach your daughters to sing in silence.  Teach them to look for me beneath the waves at sunset so that when my star rises they shall be ready.

I will join you on the sands and offer prayers of praise for your souls, the keepers of my name, the faithful who have returned to the great waters.

From The Sybil
This allegory comes from A Woman's Book Of Allegory and uses goddess mythology to alert women to the fact that the destructive present can be overcome by inner song. 
When I speak of goddess mythology I mean that literally, not the so-called goddess mythology invented by the cosmetic industry. The allegory is written for all women who feel silenced by the destructive energies of our time, and tells the story of the last oracle of a dying priestess.
I use the concept of singing in silence not as being mute, but as singing regardless of being heard or not, because all song is universal resonance. Nor do I differentiate between songs. That is the choice of the individual woman.
Sing of trees, if you must. Sing of seas. Sing of injustice or in naive ignorance. Just find a song and sing. This is the message of the allegory.

Around the traps

By way of recommendation, here are some writerly pieces I've enjoyed of late:

• Cam Rogers' site is in full-swing again. 7 Things I've Learned About Writing For Kids is a fine nutshell-article.
• In Walk, Jay Kristoff tackles rejection slips, and how to respond to the critters.
• Louise Cusack debates the role of the writer online, and authenticity vs spin.
• Patrick O'Duffy gives his embryonic novella The Obituarist an ultra-sound - even traces the moment of conception - and promises to deliver the thing within a couple of months.
• Alan Baxter discusses Writers as bitches and the investment of readers.
• And over at The View From Here, literary agent Simon Trewin rounds off his posts from the International Festival of Authors in Toronto with a short piece about Project Bookmark Canada. 

Here's an illustration.  It is because it is.  Some things just are.

It must be Friday

I spent a while today trying to delete a full stop that had found its way between two.words of a Word document.

Every time I placed the cursor and pressed Backspace, though, I deleted one of the characters either side of it, instead of the full stop itself.

It took several attempts before I thought to scratch the fly shit or spider shit off the screen.

This sort of thing will happen when insects defecate in Times New Roman.

Down at the Factory of the Imagination in October

Word-wise it may have been a slow couple of months, but idea-wise it's been pretty rich, and October in particular has seen a few new layers added to Number Three.  This is the part I really like about writing novels.  Some ideas have grown directly out of the process of editing, which is coming along well, but some have simply grown from chewing the fat with friends (about nothing and everything), from a bit of reading, listening to music, looking at paintings, eating and drinking and dreaming - living, thinking, gazing at my navel.  Number Three is now at 67,000 words and I feel like I'm on the home stretch, even though all this thinking may have added another couple of months to getting the bloody thing finished.  Except it's no longer a 'bloody thing' and I'm enjoying it again.  Out of the doldrums.  Full sail ahead!

Mixed metaphors for this report as usual.  My bad.

Recent Reads: The Ascent of Isaac Steward by Mike French

Be warned: this review might contain spoilers. 

Before I say anything about Mike French's debut novel, The Ascent of Isaac Steward, other than to say it took Amazon and Fishpond three months and three attempts between them to deliver me a copy, let me say that Mike French is a friend and that I get an acknowledgement at the beginning of the book (very cool), so my opinion of it might be considered biased.  That said, if I didn't like the book and didn't feel I could recommend it, then I'd probably say nothing here, but I do and I am.

To validate the sincerity of my comments though, I'll begin with a negative (and then maybe you'll accept my ultimate recommendation to read it for yourself).  My biggest gripe about this novel is that Cauliay Publishing's copy editor might have spent more time... well, copy editing.   Every author wishes to see their work published with as few typos/errors as possible, even though a few always slip through, dammit - and I have a recent edition of Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four that still hasn't yet shrugged off a sixty-year-old typo or two - but there's the sense that Cauliay might have rushed this in a few places.  That aside, the font and print, the paper, the cover - all those other finishing elements - are lovely.  (It may be my imagination, but there's something about the cover paper that gives it a fantastic 'rubberised' feel, and I found myself regularly running my hand across it, just to confirm and reconfirm this.  Hmm, I'll have to get that checked out.)

But to the novel itself.  The Ascent of Isaac Steward is accompanied by some fine endorsements, and this one by author R.N.Morris (A Razor Wrapped in Silk) has been much referred to in various reviews:

"Reminiscent of the surrealist literary experiments of James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake but blessedly readable.  The Ascent of Isaac Steward is insanely ambitious, startlingly odd, boldly conceived, and executed with tremendous confidence.  One of the most extraordinary novels I have ever read."

I have no trouble agreeing with anything R.N.Morris has written here - he hasn't put a word wrong as far as I'm concerned - although I have to admit that my knowledge of Finnegan's Wake is based on a brief glance rather than a sound reading.  However, it does allow me to reassure prospective readers that, unlike Finnegan's Wake, the prose in Ascent is comprehensible and indeed "blessedly readable".  That aside, because Mike has created a novel which is wonderfully unique and experimental, it's probably normal (and useful) to have such a reference point against which to compare and contrast it, in order to clarify one's thoughts.

If I were to liken it to any book I've read before, it would be to Flann O'Brien's The Third Policeman (yes, let's keep this with the Irish, even though Mike French is English, and not Irish... or French).  To my mind, The Ascent of Isaac Steward, like The Third Policeman, and William Golding's Pincher Martin even, explores the nether world between the ending of a life and the recognition of death.  It's fertile, surreal ground because we have no idea what dying and death is like, so almost anything goes.

There were times when I found it hard to keep track of the characters and their alter-egos, and to map out the hierarchy of worlds that Isaac and his cohort journey through, as I did with elements of The Third Policeman, but I found it a very satisfying book when I stopped worrying about this and allowed the crucial elements to reveal themselves.


Indeed, because it's such a startlingly original book, and subverts the reader's expectations at a number of points, I found myself approaching the narrative in a different way to usual.  Instead of attempting to carefully understand each twist and turn, I grabbed hold of the characters' coat tails and let them take me where they would.  In this manner, I went along for the helter-skelter ride, enjoying the spectacle of each scene, and adding one impression to another rather than needing to make absolute sense of every event as they happened.

Ultimately, it occurred to me that reading The Ascent of Isaac Steward is somewhat like engaging with a semi-abstract painting: it comprises a number of intriguing and bizarre images that are familiar, but slightly distorted, in the way that a dream might distort them, and, in the process, it creates a mythological world of its own.  There are images from the bible, from Punch and Judy, from shoot-'em-up computer games, from underwater prisons... all of which, when you stand back and look at the whole picture, present an intriguing and entertaining story about a man battling with his memories and journeying through an underworld that is, to a large extent, his own nightmarish creation.

What I particularly like about this novel (and appreciate about Cauliay's investment in it) is that it takes risks.  It is abstract, experimental and entertaining.  So don't get hung up on understanding every single detail, but kick back and enjoy the helter-skelter ride yourself.


Mike French's blog.
The Ascent of Isaac Steward at Amazon.com

Children's Books I

After 57 years of living in the same house, my parents recently moved; a different town, a different county.  (Good on 'em.)  As part of that process, they had a massive sorting out, which resulted in my mother sending me a book that played a role in both her childhood and mine: Albert, 'Arold and Others, written by Marriott Edgar and published by Francis, Day & Hunter Ltd of Charing Cross Road, London.  There's no date in the book, but I gather it was released in 1938 or 1939.

As a kid, what I loved about this book was its black humour and the fact that much of it was written for a Lancashire working-class accent.  What I particularly liked was that, in The Lion and Albert, young Albert, when visiting the zoo, gets eaten by Wallace the lion, and his parents are peeved for the wrong reasons.  It was one of those books I never tired of, and I wonder whether the books we read as children shape what we read (or write) as adults, and whether they shape us in other ways too.  What do you think?

The manager had to be sent for.

He came and he said "What's to do?"

Pa said "Yon Lion's 'et Albert,

And 'im in his Sunday clothes, too."

Then Mother said, "Right's right, young feller;

I think it's a shame and a sin

For a lion to go and eat Albert,

And after we've paid to come in."

The manager wanted no trouble,

He took out his purse right away,

Saying "How much to settle the matter?"

And Pa said "What do you usually pay?"

I had three other favourites from this time, which are still on my bookshelves: Emil and the Detectives by Erich Kastner (I read this seven times, so possibly wasn't a particularly adventurous reader), The Story About Ping by Flack and Wiese, and The Otterbury Incident by C.Day Lewis.  Comics and annuals were part of my literary world too, but these had a much shorter shelf life, and I borrowed Enid Blyton's Famous Five adventures from the library on occasion.

To this day, I love kids' books, and relished that part of parenthood when there was a ready excuse to start buying and reading them all over again.  The cupboards and bookshelves are crammed with these too, and it's good to take them out and read again every once in a while.  I have many, many more favourites amongst them, but that's another story.

The sacred dance of the fields

She was old now, bent and heart-bruised. It took her longer to dance the fields.

As a girl only her village danced by the light of the moon. But the slowing of age had made her aware of the others.

Some danced. Some stood or sat in meditation as the monks at the monastery. Some walked with paddles and strings beside her, unaware.

These others were like the morning mist, gossamer shapes so differently clothed as if each came from their own time and place, as if gathered together by the dance of the fields – and the pattern of the steps.

The pattern always returned to the spiral, to the memory with which she was born but could not grasp like a butterfly just out of reach.

She danced to capture the butterfly.

First published in RedBubble and in answer to the question, "What is a crop circle?"

Around the traps

There's been a fair whack of writerly stuff written around the traps these last few days.

• Jay Kristoff advises on the benefits of sucking up every grain of despair when the manuscript you're working on is rapidly morfing into a pile of crap.  A little bit of hate, he reckons, may make you a better writer.
• Patrick O'Duffy responds to the perennial question writers have to ask themselves: What's the damned book about? He looks at the distinctions between premise and theme, and makes the point that the "premise is the hook that distinguishes your work from all the other bait out there."
• Michael Pryor desribes how writing is like magic, and how he got involved in learning conjuring tricks as a result of his writing.
• Over at Alan Baxter's site, Foz Meadows has written a fine guest post about Piracy and Free Content, and the implications of this for writers.  Foz has since added to her thoughts about this on her own site.
• The View From Here has posted some great articles recently.  I particularly enjoyed Catherine McNamara's piece about interlinked short stories and whether these constitute a novel.
• Oh, and with magic in mind, and never having thought much about the work of voice artists before, I was gob-smacked to hear this demo of Kevin Powe's work.  (You can also find Kevin's KAPOWE! blog here.)

Benefactors of the Fukushima legacy

It is easy to ignore the invisible. As humans, we do it all the time.

Radiation is invisible and, so, we choose to forget the Fukushima fallout in our rain and the creeping sickness spreading into our seas.

Ignoring between 5 and 20 tonnes of debris, some of which is likely to contain Fukushima contaminants, is not easy.

That debris is heading toward North American shores like a slow, lumbering monster - the stuff of nightmares, except, this time, we do not get to wake up.

 The water in the wake of the debris is radioactive.

While the Japanese government and TEPCO assure us that the ocean will dilute the contamination, early research results indicate that this is not true.

There could have been a reprieve if the contamination was related only to the March explosions at the nuclear plant, and the initial emergency dumping of tonnes of radioactive water off the Fukushima coastline. Could have been.

The contamination continues - 7 months after the explosions.

In a few years from now, children will be splashing in radioactive waves off the west coasts of Canada and the United States.

Long before then, these children will eat fish caught in contaminated waters, and sample rice which Japan continues to export despite the fact that exporters and government officials know the rice is toxic.

I would like to believe that Japanese authorities are suffering from a case of uncontrollable self-denial. That would lend a sense of human frailty to their decision-making.

But the decisions are cold, calculated economic ones.

Exporters need a market to survive even when that market is threatened by the toxicity of the exports.

This is no different to a parasite which survives only because it has a host - even when its dependence kills the host.

Perhaps, even more pathetic, is the realization that Japan as exporter is also taking the lives of its own children.

Fukushima released a monster, and we are all in its way.

***

This post is based on a personal summary of articles found on Enenews and Fairewinds websites.

The rescue cat

I stretch because I can,

because I have no fear of falling.

When I over-reach the chair
you’ll be there,
to catch and to cuddle,
you’ll be there.

In different lives,
my first and second,
stretching was an angst
punctuated by terror
and more meaningless error.

My third life was a cage,
an endless line of faces
which passed me by
for others, as yet more
took their places.

My fourth life began with a scratch,
with a click of the latch,
with fresh air.

A caring embrace and a collar,
a food bowl, all mine
with a friend to the end,
to the very end.

Now, I stretch because I can,
because I have no fear of falling.

Those who speak to Gnomes

The Arboretum, Burlington, Ontario.

According to Maria Thun, Gnomes believe that the shell is the best part of an egg. They are utterly baffled by the human habit of eating the flesh and throwing away the shell.

Pavement plodders never meet Gnomes, gardeners do. Gnomes are no more or no less than the personification of the earthly wisdom that comes to those who spend hours running their fingers through the soil.

One of the eternal secrets which gardeners learn is the art of composting, and the very wisest among them knows that eggshell is royalty in the mix because of its high calcium content.

Calcium is the fifth most common element in the earth’s crust, present in all living matter, and alkaline which helps restore the soil’s pH balance.

Calcium is the dominant component in limestone, and limestone, in paranormal circles, is said to channel psychic energies.

Gnomes are psychic energies which manifest themselves to gardeners and, I am tempted to believe, specifically to those who have perfected the art of composting with eggshell.

So, next time someone claims to speak to Gnomes ask to share their garden. It will be peaceful there.

Recent Reads: Being Dead by Jim Crace

Alleluia! After three disappointments, I finally found a book I could enjoy: Jim Crace's novel Being Dead.

Seriously, I was beginning to think there was something wrong with me.  Perhaps I'd got so caught up in my own writing that, when searching for something in the fiction of other authors - some sort of escape, some sort of enchanting surprise, some sort of entertainment - I'd unwittingly doomed myself to being forever disappointed.  As if I might, stupidly, be searching for the book I wanted to write.  But, no, I just had a bad trot, that's all, and Jim Crace proved it.  Cheers, Jim.

 I must confess that I hadn't read Mr Crace before, but the quality of Being Dead is such that I'll soon be ordering a couple of his other titles (Quarantine will probably be one, as this took the 1997 Whitbread Award and was short-listed for the Booker Prize of that year).

It might sound depressing, but it's not.  It's lyrical, imaginative and engaging from start to finish.

On Baritone Bay, in mid-afternoon, Joseph and Celice, married for almost thirty years, lie murdered in the dunes.  The shocking particulars of their passing make up the arc of this courageous and haunting novel.  The story of life, mortality and love, Being Dead confirms Jim Crace's place as one of our most talented, compassionate, and intellectually provocative writers. (Picador edition)

In finding out a little more about the author and the novel, I came across a fine blog, The Age of Uncertainty.  You can read more about Being Dead, Jim Crace, and much more besides, here.

The difference between a skeptic and a cynic

The cycle of life: 1900 - 1950 - 2011
Public domain photo

A skeptic believes there is an argument to be won.

A cynic knows there isn't.

District 9 as memory

I watched a rerun of District 9 last night. I knew it was a story about aliens produced in South Africa, and that it had won acclaim in science fiction circles, but nothing more. So, expecting a good dose of escape, I settled in with my happy mood popcorn.

The happy mood evaporated within seconds, and the popcorn remained untouched because I had a sudden and continued urge to throw up.

What the world perceived as science fiction, I saw as memory.

Only, in my version of the story, the aliens were humans severed from their birthright and dignity. In my memory, I can put faces and names to the prawns.

What I saw was a script writer subliminally haunted, unable to reach beyond memory into fantasy but, because his audience was ignorant of the past, his angst was perceived as genius.

The crime of complicity and the dotage of men

I have been thinking about the crime of complicity a lot since watching A is for Atom, an Adam Curtis documentary on nuclear history in which many of the participants at the dawn of nuclear power display moments of contrition and the common statement that things were so good for them that they “overlooked” critical issues.

This is not the first time I have thought about aging men and their propensity for penitence.

The thought came to mind with the murder of Eugène Ney Terre'Blanche, a rightwing extremist in South African politics. Many muttered about the brutality of his death, an old man who could no longer defend himself. True. But in his stronger days his political brutality supported a system which perpetrated unspeakable acts, destroying lives and leaving lifelong scars upon untold generations of people. Was Terre’Blanche a penitent at the time of his death? I don’t know. But there is a long line of his compatriots who are. Forgiven grandfathers who rock their wee ones on the knee while Time heals their guilt.

The thought crosses my mind each time someone is arrested for a war crime. These perpetrators of heinous crimes against humanity are usually of a certain age when they are finally brought to justice. Dressed in ties and jackets - with thinning, speckled hair - they seem so benign between the almost over-sized police guard. How could someone so respectable be such a monster?

The thought crosses my mind as a matron pleads for respect under oath, begging to be believed that she was molested by her father, that elegantly dressed, calm man whose great grandchild sits a few rows back in the courtroom. Her wrinkles and dowdiness versus his timeless image of propriety.

The thought crosses my mind when rows of broken men and women wring their hands in a guilt that is not theirs as they drag out the inner courage to accuse a childhood rapist.

The dotage of men seems to carry with it a socially sanctioned forgiveness for unforgivable crimes committed in youth and inspired by greed, amorality, ego, ego and ego.

Yet, society never forgives the wrong doing of their victims whose lives were cast onto the path of inevitability by the very act committed against them. Their pain is, according to the law, just an excuse for a life of crime.

Society never acknowledges the disease and compromise of the victims of Science, assigning these to the consequences of indistinguishable background noise.

We forgive the dotage of men, and I do not understand why.

***

Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom

Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.

The Hollow Men. T.S. Eliot.

Conflux

Speculative fiction ain't fully my thing.  Nor fantasy.  Not yet.  They might be if there were more hours in the day, and at some point in the future I might want to make them more my thing, but for the time-being I'm happy doing what it is I do - whatever that is.  However, recently heard about Conflux and, seeing that I'd never heard its name before, thought I should find out and share.

Conflux is an annual Speculative Fiction conference held in Canberra and, from what I gather, has grown from a rich history of 50+ Science Fiction conferences.  It's got all you'd expect to find at a literary conference - guest speakers, discussion panels, workshops, author readings, book signings, wining, dining and networking - and more...

Under the 7 FAQs at the Conflux website, I thought this an interesting, if not telling inclusion:

What is the Weapons Policy?
No weapons are to be brought to, worn or carried at any time during the convention (including water pistols, real or replica guns, swords or knives), unless approved as part of an official event. Only the convention organisers may approve such weapons and their participation in any event.

What are they expecting? Or rather, who are they expecting?

Tracked down some answers at Talie Helene's spot, where it's revealed on a promo video that dress-up banquets have featured for the last five conventions - Medieval, Regency Gothic, 1920s New York, Southern Gothic, On board the Graf Zeppelin (hmm).  There's a Conflux Cookbook, written by Dr Gillian Polack, to celebrate these.  Talie tells more about her time at this year's banquet (and describes a bizarre conversation she had) close to this spot.

Weapons?  Why wouldn't you bring a sword to a Medieval feast?  Although might be a little awkward on a Graf Zeppelin hydrogen airship.

Alan Baxter was a guest at this year's Conflux (with or without weaponry), and you can get a flavour of workshops by looking at his schedule here and his report (with pics) here. 

Reckon I've sold myself on this now.  Will be signing up before long.

Crone power

While on a visit to the Museum of London I was drawn to the archaeological remains of a woman displayed in the same room as a crystal skull.

Other visitors were drawn to the crystal skull like iron shavings to a magnet.  When released from its gaze they wandered from the room, blind to all else, including the bones of the ancient crone.

The metaphor, to me at any rate, was palpable.

Once girl power dwindles women become increasingly invisible.

Old bones, with or without flesh, are trodden underfoot in the scramble to play with something new and shiny.

But there is a reason why women of a certain age around the world have been, and continue to be, burned alive as witches. Their accusers believe they have unholy powers - and they do.

Invisibility is the essence of crone power.

When a woman has nothing more to lose she has everything to fight for.

Oh, and the burning thing?

Doesn't work.

No need to reincarnate.

Each generation of humans recreates this nifty little invisible monster over and over again for itself.

***

Witch nailed down to stop her rising.

My ancestor was killed by a watermelon

History shows that people will steal to feed themselves and their families. If pushed, they will even kill. In this world of hunger, there is no exploiter or exploited, only varying levels of very desperate individuals.

Dutch colonization of the Cape was a strategic business move by the Dutch East India Company designed to supply its ships with fresh produce on the journey between Europe and Asia. Like all big business the company wanted the most profit for the least amount of expenditure.

To this end, Europeans of different nationalities were lured with the promise of freehold land and a horizon of opportunity. To refugee Huguenots in the Netherlands it was a chance to kick start their lives in a place where they would not be murdered in their beds for their religious beliefs.

They arrived at the Cape laden with a casket of seeds and farm implements.

They thought, because there was no precedent for thinking otherwise, that they were moving to a secure, settled colony. In reality, they were dumped onto ox wagons and taken into the wilderness, to the base of a line of mountains which separated Dutch East India Company land from a group of very angry indigenous people who had been barred from roaming the Cape Peninsula at will.

The Huguenots were, in essence, the first line of defence for the Company, the expendable cannon fodder which would take the brunt of the anger and buy time for the Company's employees to build additional and layered levels of protection.

The Huguenots were not the first group of Europeans to find themselves in this position. Mercenary Germans and even Company employees, freed from their employment bonds, had preceded them. The difference was that the Huguenots were farmers and craftsmen with a smattering of military men - very few military men - in the mix.

Our family had one of the few military trained men in the mix. He had been an Army officer in Paris, so the story goes, and he was part of an underground movement which gave safe passage out of France to Huguenots.

Whether he was discovered, or whether he thought it was time to go, is lost in time, but he and his family migrated to Holland along the same escape system, and from there to their uncertain fate in the wilds of Africa.

The family arrived at the Cape and were taken to a patch of tenacious shrub and grass where they were unloaded and left to their own devices.

I have often tried to imagine how they felt as the truth of their situation dawned on them.

An alien world filled with the forlorn sound of night predators with only the flimsy walls of a makeshift shack between.

What little food they had was rationed as they scrambled to figure out how to reach the Dutch East India Company which lay at a distance across miles of sand and foliage - as they tore out scrub with bare hands and pitifully inadequate implements to expose a patch of land for seed.

And the desperation of knowing that that seed was their sole source of food and income.

Six months into the nightmare, my ancestors had a patch of green watermelon to show for their efforts. They guarded it with life and limb, and, so, when a Khoi made his way into the patch and asked for an unripe melon, the head of the household said no.

During the ensuing argument, the Khoi picked up a watermelon and threw it with some force at my ancestor's chest. The impact ruptured an artery.

A crazy way to die - in a food fight between two hungry people.

Down at the Factory of the Imagination in September

Although I'm only about 20,000 words away from the end of Number Three, I haven't added a single page to the manuscript during September.  This has been a deliberate and liberating decision.  Instead, apart from editing the first few sections of the novel - demolishing redundant words and sentences, building pace, strengthening impact - I've spent most of the month thinking about writing.

While this may sound wanky, it's an essential part of the writing process for me.  It's what I do before I start writing, but I also like to punctuate the process of writing - when everything's going reasonably well - with taking time out from committing words to the page and simply thinking about writing instead.  Not only does abstinence make me hungry to write again, to get back to the characters and their stories, but in distancing myself from them for a short while, I find I can think about them afresh.  If I do a little editing at the same time, visit a gallery or two, get hooked into some new music, read a good book, watch a few films, then new ideas start fermenting, and though I might not be adding dialogue, narrative or description to the novel, I end up scribbling lots of notes and with a stronger sense of what I'm writing - and how.  New layers reveal themselves, extra dimensions to the characters become apparent, I see opportunities I'd missed before.

That's where I'm up to.

Good stuff

I've been on the road these last few days; driving through thunder, lightning, flash floods, aquaplaning towards concrete crash barriers, sitting in traffic jams, waiting for delayed planes - that sort of thing.  Not doing a lot of writing, but taking the opportunity to catch up with reading and with simply thinking about writing (a worthwhile thing to do at times), but I'll say more about that in a future post.

What I want to do here is give a shout-out or two, by way of celebrating just some of the good stuff that's happening around the writing community.

To Louise Cusack, who signed a three e-book deal (or is that threee-book deal?) with Pan Macmillan's digital publishing subsidiary, Momentum Books, to re-release her fantasy trilogy, Shadow Through Time, to the international market.

To Mike French, whose debut novel The Ascent of Isaac Steward (Cauliay Publishing), was waiting on the doorstep for me at the end of my journey, after a bizarre journey of its own (Amazon failed to send my pre-ordered copy, Fishpond spent two months losing the copy I requested from them, and then told me last week it was no longer available and so wouldn't be sending a replacement copy... but managed to post it to me on the same day).  Likened by R.N.Morris to "the surrealist literary experiments of James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake but blessedly readable", I'll enjoy starting it soon.  Big CONGRATULATIONS to Mike too for being long-listed by the Galaxy Book Awards under New Writer of the Year category.

To Cam Rogers, whose claim that Fight Club is one of the "best zombie films ever made" got me thinking about this favourite movie in a whole new light.  He presents a weirdly convincing case.

To Jay Kristoff, who tapped into my doubts about the value of tweeting and had me cheering at the same time, with his Ten reasons you can Follow THIS.

To Dmetri Kakmi, whose article on why Australia's constitution should be rewritten to recognise the country's indigenous inhabitants has had me wondering if a group of writers couldn't harness the net to make this happen.  Or whether this is something that Avaaz might be prepared to take on.

And I have to stop there, so you can check out the links.  There's so much good stuff happening at the moment.  This is just a flavour.

What our eyes cannot see

The video below is intriguing because it raises the question, "Do we see everything there is to see in the world about us?"

We know that human hearing is limited to a particular range of sounds, so why not our vision?

We know that animals see differently from us, but is it possible that we are actually unable to see coexistent species - species which are beyond our visual capacity to comprehend?

In the face of so little research into the human ability to perceive its entire environment I have to ask, "Why not?"

http://youtu.be/mSwbmPM8D40

Searching for the Story

One September several years back, my job took me to Thessaloniki, northern Greece, for a couple of weeks. As I flew out of Australia, Sydney launched its Olympic Games Opening Ceremony, and the irony of seeing several events taking place in my home country through the medium of Greek TV wasn't lost on me. I'd lounge in my hotel room at the end of the day, watching the 100 metres or the discus throwing, and find it bizarre that Mount Olympus was only a spit and a lick away. As was Alexander the Great, Aristotle and Socrates, and there were more Byzantine churches, Roman baths, temples and tombs around than you could poke a javelin at. It's a stunning country to visit, not least because its rich history and culture is apparent at almost every turn. So many stories.

However, this isn't a travelogue, and while there were many experiences (from both contemporary and ancient Greece) to enjoy on that trip, and which I've often savoured since, it was a fragment of domestic grief only briefly witnessed that created the most profound effect on me. Comedy and tragedy happens all around us - unreachable and unalterable, despite being uncannily close at times - and sometimes all we can do is join the Chorus as unwitting and helpless observers, hoping that the worst of the stories are never our own.

On my last morning in Thessaloniki, before flying to Athens, I was up and packed by 5am and standing at the open window of my room. It was still dark outside - still and dark - and warm with the promise of another hot day. My room was located on the fourth floor, at the rear of the hotel, looking across to the back of a couple of high-rise apartment blocks. They didn't seem too big a stretch away and it would have probably added to the ambiance of the place if someone had slung a washing line between, but I've always enjoyed the backyard and rooftop views of cities, seeking out the back streets and lanes in preference to postcard hotspots, and so it suited me fine.

It was good to breathe in the end of night, the start of day, and to catch a few moments of stillness before heading down to the lobby and catching the airport bus. And I was thinking this and mentally checking to make sure I hadn't forgot something - that I'd kept my passport and tickets handy, and that sort of thing - when, from an apartment almost opposite, a woman began crying.

It began as a sobbing. Deep sobs, one after the other. Until one sob became an intense wail: a drawn-out cry that reminded me of someone drowning. She was sobbing and crying as if the best of her life was over, and I couldn't tell whether it was from grief or pain or loss or betrayal or... There suddenly seemed so many reasons a woman might cry at 5 o'clock in the morning.

I peered out to try and identify which apartment and which room she might be in. Was she hurt? Had she witnessed the death of her child. Or a husband? What sort of loss was it? Was she sitting next to a telephone or a bloody mess? Was there a scribbled note in her hand? Was she in danger? Did she need help? I couldn't tell, but the solitary sound of this woman crying was amplified across the courtyard of tall buildings, along with its poignancy, and it found its way into me. It was one of the most plaintive, lonely sounds I'd ever heard.

It seemed that at any moment someone would have to join her, to soothe and comfort her, or to continue bullying and berating her; that the click or slam of a door would be equally clear on a morning like this, along with the ripple of soothing words or the throwing of pans, the smashing of crockery. But none of that happened. Just as she began her lament, so she ended it. As I stood and listened and wondered what - if anything - could be done, a current swept her from one end of grief to another, and her wailing once again became a series of sobs punctuated by silence. Except the silence now seemed louder than before. And I had to catch a bus to the airport.

So evocative was this scene for me that I've tried writing it numerous times across the years, although most often when I'm somewhere far from home. Usually as a poem, but occasionally as a short story. Except the words I really want and the view I really want to present have always eluded me. All I've created are scraps of paper with scribbled jottings and crossings-out to join the heap of other scraps of paper covered in scribbled jottings and crossings-out. (I have trees worth of these and sometimes, when we're short of winter firewood, I'll burn a box or two of them and we'll warm ourselves on the flames of old words.)

I could leave it well alone, of course, and allow the scene to simply hang in the gallery of my memories. Except I'm reluctant to. And so, I do what many writers do and begin to analyse why what I've tried won't work, while searching for a way of telling it in a way that might work instead. I look at the possibilities from different perspectives and learn that I can't see my way forward, perhaps, because my focus has been misdirected.

Maybe, instead of attempting to present a view of the woman's predicament and an interpretation of her situation, or even just capturing an evocative moment in life, the power of the scene might lie in the many questions that are raised but left begging. Or, in a Carveresque manner, it might lie in describing two characters who, for very different reasons, find themselves on the brink of change. There are so many possibilities.  Maybe it needs to be one of those stories whereby, instead of making sense of the world - or a slice of the world - we end up with even more questions than answers along with a weightier awareness of our smallness in the universe. Maybe I should turn to Euripedes, Homer, Sophocles, and ask how the Greek poets would have shaped the telling of this story. Perhaps I should question what universal truth might be revealed here. Maybe, perhaps, possibly... There are so many ways of telling a story, if only we, as writers, can find one that works.

Searching for the Story first appeared in The View from Here in February, 2009.