Like most people I know I've been watching Go Back To Where You Came From on SBS. I have a tremendous problem with Raquel. Like Geoff Lemon said she's a 'bandsaw-voiced tracksuit mannequin whose casual racism and innate sense of privilege has made her the anti-matter star of the show'. Geoff raises some interesting points in his post but I'd like to depart from his reasoned and informed opinion and go my own way, just for a minute.
Raquel was crying because she was not able to bring herself to use the toilets in the refugee camp. I sympathise with her plight, as a woman who never mastered the art of squatting to wee without weeing on my shoes, down my legs or on my pushed down trousers I get why she was upset. What I don't understand is how she failed to understand that weeing in those circumstances might be upsetting for other people as well as for her. If there is a personal yet universal act it is surely the act of doing a wee. Everybody wees.
It seems to me there must be a malfunction with Raquel's humanity. I admire her sense of self, her sure as shit everyone else can get fucked attitude, but I don't understand how it hasn't been dented by her experiences. It seems to me that she has wound her sheltered suburban lifestyle around herself tighter than a flak jacket.
I was waiting for her to arrive at a compassionate thought but I've given up on that now. I don't have a point, not yet. Unlike Raquel I'm trying as hard as I can to be compassionate, to attempt an understanding of her point of view and how she might have arrived there.
Public alphabet causes mild humiliation in shopping centre
Grizelda was standing next to the display shelf right near the front of the shop, which isn't very interesting until you learn the next part, the part where I tell you what she was saying. She held up a pink sparkly pencil and very clearly and loudly explained to me how to hold a pen. I attempted to emulate her but apparently I got it very wrong. She went on to give another demonstration before grabbing my fingers and making me practice writing letters all the while giving loud instructions and corrections.
You see Grizelda has recently discovered that I hold my pen 'incorrectly'. I think it all began when I asked her to correct my chopstick technique to minimise soup splashes on my white shirt. What makes it worse is that Spencer agrees with her. He also thinks I hold my pen incorrectly, which is how I wound up in Smiggle receiving a public lesson on writing letters of the alphabet then purchasing a triangular pen-grip holder to 'help' me. I don't think Grizelda would have run so publicly wild if she hadn't have had Spencer's support on the matter.
I can not even begin to describe the intense feeling of embarrassment I felt standing near the display shelf at right near the front of the shop while Grizelda waved around an over-sized pink sparkly pencil. I wanted to yell, 'I am only being docile about this because I am writing my manuscript by hand and it hurts. My hand hurts!'. But a quick scan of the sniggering twelve-year olds in the shop kept me quiet.
I don't know if the shop incident was merely a coincidence but today I began to type. Before today any effort made towards writing the damn thing on the computer was thwarted by an insistent inner voice that said, 'you must first write this by hand'. Today the voice was absent so I went digital and began the work of typing it all out. It is depressing how reams of handwritten pages shrink down when they are typed out, like mushrooms in a hot pan. I never cook enough mushrooms but fortunately the manuscript is not finished. I have no idea how the whole thing goes which is almost the loveliest part. There aren't too many things left where I get to discover something brand new every step of the way. Don't vomit yet, I'm not turning into Anne of Green Gables I'm just saying that not all art feels bad to birth. That part of it, the pain part, is at least partially a myth. If it didn't feel good, apart from the unexpected public alphabet humiliations and the odd day of horrifying slow-progress torture, I'm quite sure we wouldn't all be doing it.
You see Grizelda has recently discovered that I hold my pen 'incorrectly'. I think it all began when I asked her to correct my chopstick technique to minimise soup splashes on my white shirt. What makes it worse is that Spencer agrees with her. He also thinks I hold my pen incorrectly, which is how I wound up in Smiggle receiving a public lesson on writing letters of the alphabet then purchasing a triangular pen-grip holder to 'help' me. I don't think Grizelda would have run so publicly wild if she hadn't have had Spencer's support on the matter.
I can not even begin to describe the intense feeling of embarrassment I felt standing near the display shelf at right near the front of the shop while Grizelda waved around an over-sized pink sparkly pencil. I wanted to yell, 'I am only being docile about this because I am writing my manuscript by hand and it hurts. My hand hurts!'. But a quick scan of the sniggering twelve-year olds in the shop kept me quiet.
I don't know if the shop incident was merely a coincidence but today I began to type. Before today any effort made towards writing the damn thing on the computer was thwarted by an insistent inner voice that said, 'you must first write this by hand'. Today the voice was absent so I went digital and began the work of typing it all out. It is depressing how reams of handwritten pages shrink down when they are typed out, like mushrooms in a hot pan. I never cook enough mushrooms but fortunately the manuscript is not finished. I have no idea how the whole thing goes which is almost the loveliest part. There aren't too many things left where I get to discover something brand new every step of the way. Don't vomit yet, I'm not turning into Anne of Green Gables I'm just saying that not all art feels bad to birth. That part of it, the pain part, is at least partially a myth. If it didn't feel good, apart from the unexpected public alphabet humiliations and the odd day of horrifying slow-progress torture, I'm quite sure we wouldn't all be doing it.
The last time I read this it was compulsory to pit my mind against it
This time part of it rose up as if in a dream and I longed for nothing more than to turn around, run back to the harbour, witness it for myself.
An excerpt from Five Bells by Kenneth Slessor.
'Deep and dissolving verticals of light
Ferry the falls of moonshine down. Five bells
Coldly rung out in a machine's voice. Night and water
Pour to one rip of darkness, the Harbour floats
In the air, the Cross hangs upside-down in water.'
An excerpt from Five Bells by Kenneth Slessor.
'Deep and dissolving verticals of light
Ferry the falls of moonshine down. Five bells
Coldly rung out in a machine's voice. Night and water
Pour to one rip of darkness, the Harbour floats
In the air, the Cross hangs upside-down in water.'
The URL broke!
How in the hell can a URL break? Bastards. Anyway the correct one is now http://tinyurl.com/3rk4tkn (you know I'm still talking about the crowdfunding for PAN right?).
Maybe in advance but maybe not
It is possible that I may become slightly annoying during this crowdfunding campaign so I'm going to apologise now. Sorry.... also here is a link.
Crowdfunding for PAN #2
Crowdfunding is nifty, particularly when we, me and the PAN team, are using it to help us make the last little bit to print issue #2. I don't usually ask people for money, it makes me feel squirmy, but this time I'm holding out my hopeful open hands.
For just $15 you score a copy of PAN issue #2 and I score enough money to pay the printers. Please take a moment to check out our crowdfunding page on Pozible.
The way this works is simple, all money pledged is held in a special fund until the target is reached, once the target is reached the fund is transferred to PAN. If we don’t reach our target you will receive a full refund. There are options to pay by credit card or PayPal. You will need to either signup or use your Facebook login but that only takes a second.
So what do you get for your money? A quality magazine for $15 for starters but we’re offering a few different levels of support. Please take a moment to have a look at what we’re offering. Our crowdfunding campaign opens tomorrow on the 10th of June.
Oh and if you wouldn't mind spreading the word I'd be very grateful...
For media and publicity enquiries, please contact:
Rebecca Lee Williams, Publicist, PAN magazine | e: rebecca@panmagazine.com
Clockwork rising
I haven't stopped paying attention. Night sounds still crowd my ancient windows while the cat bolts under the blankets on top of my bed. She'll burrow and curl herself into a dear little bat-eared knot. Wait out the worst of the overnight cold with her measured breaths and unconscious whirrings. She'll emerge at a predetermined signal, known only to cats, step delicately across my shoulders and face. Paw to nose, paw to eye, paw to hair.
I might sleep through bat-eared whirrings and the hallway pulling cold breaths under doorways until well past first light. I may sit all night bent as a bachelor over hand-written piles of nothing or like last night I might lean back upon pillows and read through the hours of other people's words.
Some people ask me if I would be so kind as to read what they have written and tell them what I think. This happens more frequently than it used to, I suspect it has something to do with being the editor of a magazine. I always used to say no, some writers are horrifyingly precious, won't even take a modicum of measured feedback given gently, with sugar, in a positive light. Witnessing floods of tears followed by defensive justifications is not my idea of a good afternoon. Of course there are always people I will read for, writers who have the good grace to ask for an opinion only when they genuinely want one.
I was sent some writing the other day, parts of a journal not yet worked up into something bigger. He would like to know my opinion on whether or not they are worth the working. I debated whether or not to say yes. Not because he is precious or a terrible writer but because one of the great joys of my existence is reading other people's journals or diaries or scrawlings, notes, jottings, ideas, brain blurts. Anything that was written just for them. I took a moment to balance my desires. It seemed possible that if I said yes it would be to satisfy my own urge as a favour to myself and not to him.
It is not the first time he has sent me something to read, he is someone who knows what they are doing and would not send through pages without thinking it through first, so I said yes and I'm glad that I did.
There is nothing more magnificent than a writer with an open throttle, when thought and language combine in lightning fast unconscious combinations. All the good bare bones are there on those pages, whole paragraphs of flowing prose shot through with real and jagged ideas still hot and bloody. I adore this stage of other people's work. Every word is a footstep further into the usually guarded mind, sentences are raw and intentions unclear. I feel like a scientist with a microscope wondering at new puzzles of the universe. It is the very best reason for staying up late, a silent joyful worship for the absence of a clockwork rising.
I might sleep through bat-eared whirrings and the hallway pulling cold breaths under doorways until well past first light. I may sit all night bent as a bachelor over hand-written piles of nothing or like last night I might lean back upon pillows and read through the hours of other people's words.
Some people ask me if I would be so kind as to read what they have written and tell them what I think. This happens more frequently than it used to, I suspect it has something to do with being the editor of a magazine. I always used to say no, some writers are horrifyingly precious, won't even take a modicum of measured feedback given gently, with sugar, in a positive light. Witnessing floods of tears followed by defensive justifications is not my idea of a good afternoon. Of course there are always people I will read for, writers who have the good grace to ask for an opinion only when they genuinely want one.
I was sent some writing the other day, parts of a journal not yet worked up into something bigger. He would like to know my opinion on whether or not they are worth the working. I debated whether or not to say yes. Not because he is precious or a terrible writer but because one of the great joys of my existence is reading other people's journals or diaries or scrawlings, notes, jottings, ideas, brain blurts. Anything that was written just for them. I took a moment to balance my desires. It seemed possible that if I said yes it would be to satisfy my own urge as a favour to myself and not to him.
It is not the first time he has sent me something to read, he is someone who knows what they are doing and would not send through pages without thinking it through first, so I said yes and I'm glad that I did.
There is nothing more magnificent than a writer with an open throttle, when thought and language combine in lightning fast unconscious combinations. All the good bare bones are there on those pages, whole paragraphs of flowing prose shot through with real and jagged ideas still hot and bloody. I adore this stage of other people's work. Every word is a footstep further into the usually guarded mind, sentences are raw and intentions unclear. I feel like a scientist with a microscope wondering at new puzzles of the universe. It is the very best reason for staying up late, a silent joyful worship for the absence of a clockwork rising.
Bubbles
In things. Bubbles in things like chocolate, baths, lotion, water. I suspect there is a bit too much of that going on at the moment. Less bubbles, that's what we need.
Crunch time
Issue #2 of PAN is finally, finally, finally, at crunch time. I can't remember any project being quite this difficult to bring to fruition, except perhaps the grand project of staying alive, or law school but I'm not sure that counts as a project. Law school was more like an error of judgment that gathered momentum then gripped me in its yellow teeth and wouldn't put me down until I used every last ounce of will to finish the damn thing and walk away holding nothing but a cardboard folder, much like my relationships with men, only with less sex and more highlighting sentences in large books.
I'm about to embark on a large-scale experiment, the likes of which I have not before What the fuck was that? Juvenile cockroach ON MY DESK abandon ship this is an emergency.
I'm about to embark on a large-scale experiment, the likes of which I have not before What the fuck was that? Juvenile cockroach ON MY DESK abandon ship this is an emergency.
Backwards/forwards, its all a direction
Everyone is travelling backwards, spending their days writing piles of words about the past, or photographing the fading dying corners, digging their own little nostalgia holes to sit in. I love reading what they write, or seeing what they exhibit but I'm wondering what's going on. Is it that time already where me and my contemporaries turn to look over our shoulders and see a vast highway of rich things already attempted, experienced or felled by? Surely we have a way to go yet. This can't already be the point at which we fold up like dying spiders and take permanently to the memory pit. I'm still walking around realising things for the first time. I'm still learning the names of the flowers on my street and the birds in my trees. I only just learnt how to buy a dress and I'm trying just as hard as I can to get a media pass for my first ever Dolly Parton show. Should I be spending more time sitting still and remembering?
A cursory and incomplete clickable list of beautiful memory pits that I thought of in under two seconds:
Biblioburbia by Vanessa Berry
Dress, Memory by Lorelei Vashti
Parramatta Rd by Lyndal Irons
A cursory and incomplete clickable list of beautiful memory pits that I thought of in under two seconds:
Biblioburbia by Vanessa Berry
Dress, Memory by Lorelei Vashti
Parramatta Rd by Lyndal Irons
Another forgetting gets remembered
I've been ushered down the horrifying path of remembering that I started a project and then forgot all about it. Vanessa Berry has started a new project blog called Biblioburbia, like all of Vanessa's writings is definitely worth reading, but it is also the cause of my shameful remembrance. Best to just have a read of Vanessa's project while I go about trying to remember where I was up to with mine...
The superpowers of logic and maths combine to make drinkable a sub-standard coffee with the additional benefit of Cosbys
Rainsoaked and wracked with freezings chills I diverted my path home to secure my tenth cup of Paper Cup coffee knowing that it would ease more than my saturated shivers but I was a little wrong. The new barista, under the watchful eye of the Scottish man who has perfected the art of coffee making, made my usual coffee. I clutched the cup carefully under the shelter of my umbrella as I walked home. The fury of the rain making it impossible to do anything but chart a careful course and hope to avoid being wrecked against a fence or parked car.
I took my first sip in the shelter of The Peach, it was disappointing, the milk had been scalded, not burnt but definitely scalded and this got me to thinking about maths. I am sure there must be some kind of mathematical theory about the tenth one of something being different, why else would metric have invented itself?
Then I got to thinking about things in tens and it occurred to me that if every tenth coffee was sub par it was part of a larger plan to highlight the perfection of the other nine cups of coffee. Like the idea of good needing evil or light needing dark. Then it occurred to me that this was just like 'The House of Cosby's', but in reverse. If every tenth cloned Cosby has superpowers that can save the earth then the other, the in-between Cosbys, are worth making. So it is with Paper Cup coffee, every tenth coffee might be flawed and listless on the tongue but it is worth drinking for the sake of the in-between coffees, the ones that have the superpower of making me feel good to be on this earth. If you think about it mathematically that's a pretty good equation, especially if you have a loyalty card that makes every tenth coffee come for free. Maths and logic, saving the day, for once.
I took my first sip in the shelter of The Peach, it was disappointing, the milk had been scalded, not burnt but definitely scalded and this got me to thinking about maths. I am sure there must be some kind of mathematical theory about the tenth one of something being different, why else would metric have invented itself?
Then I got to thinking about things in tens and it occurred to me that if every tenth coffee was sub par it was part of a larger plan to highlight the perfection of the other nine cups of coffee. Like the idea of good needing evil or light needing dark. Then it occurred to me that this was just like 'The House of Cosby's', but in reverse. If every tenth cloned Cosby has superpowers that can save the earth then the other, the in-between Cosbys, are worth making. So it is with Paper Cup coffee, every tenth coffee might be flawed and listless on the tongue but it is worth drinking for the sake of the in-between coffees, the ones that have the superpower of making me feel good to be on this earth. If you think about it mathematically that's a pretty good equation, especially if you have a loyalty card that makes every tenth coffee come for free. Maths and logic, saving the day, for once.
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