Y hallo thar Tokyo!

(Kimi Ryokan, Ikebukuro, Tokyo)

Monday, being the last day of worldcon, was a quiet day. With nothing on the program I was interested in, I spent the morning in the laundry, reading one of the anthologies I’d picked up in the dealers room. Laundry is a good excuse to sit and do nothing while travelling.

I can’t remember if I went to the closing ceremony last year. This one seemed strangely convoluted, full of all sorts of handing over of things, awards, more awards, and medical reports. Unfortunately, they didn’t give the name of the man who had been translating into English/Japanese every single ceremony at the con. He did a great job, and deserved a whole lot more recognition than he got. Many thanks, translator-san.

As it was my last day in Yokohama, I made a point of catching the train to Shin-Yokohama and visiting the Ramen Museum. It was my first train trip going more than a couple of stops and across multiple lines, and, wow, seriously, I cannot say enough how good the system is here. It isn’t about punctuality, that’s just the least of it. So much thought has been put into the infrastructure of the stations themselves. For example, most platforms are islands serving a single line, with each side serving opposite directions. Find the colour for the line you want, and then when on the platform, check the huge, enormous signs that give the names of the stations in either direction, and the direction of train travel. I adore this. Melbourne isn’t set up for it to be implemented to any great effect.

The Ramen Museum is a bit misleading in title. It’s more of an amusement park. A 300 yen admission fee is pittance, and there was an English guide book just in the door. It’s small, and set up to look like a 1950’s Japanese village, with old movie posters and old club names. It was great just to walk around and gawk at the set.



Several restaurants are set up around the place, specialising in different forms of ramen. Ticket machines are positioned outside these shops, where you pay for what you want, and then give the ticket to the attendant, and sit down. It was very, very yummy. A good place to go for lunch or dinner, with a funky atmosphere.


(Oh, scrumptious soup noodles! Wait, wait, wait-)


(-the extra close up of scrumptiousness.)

A train trip and hike along the harbour later, and I met up with A in the Yamashita Park, which is a shock of green in amongst all the concrete. We explored Chinatown, which at night is a much more interesting and wonderful and shiny and fascinating place. I’m a sucker for neon lights and paper lanterns. We found a couple of very striking, almost decadent temples, one of which we were allowed to look around in. It must have been a new construction, given the kangaroos carved on the outer wall. I didn’t feel right taking photos of the interior, but I gathered from the idols on display that it was a Taoist temple, as the main idol looked very much like the Jade Emperor. See? Watching Monkey Magic is good for something. (ETA: I just checked on wiki, yep, Taoism it is.)


(Pretty shiny, eh? Sorry about the gump in the foreground there. Don't worry, I smacked her good for ruining my photo.)


(Yes. Ancient Taoist Kangaroos At Work.)


(You know, just how pretty the temple was almost converted me.)

Although we had originally intended to treat ourselves to a good meal, high prices and not entirely comprehensible menus scaled our objective down somewhat, and we ended up picking a chinese restaurant at random. It wasn’t bad, but I’ve had better back home. It was a most satisfying way to spend our last night in Yokohama.


(Cthulhu's wedding cake. Or something.)

Back at the hotel, I packed. And unpacked and packed again. Have I mentioned how much I hate packing? I seem to suck at it, quite phenomenally.

In the morning, it was time to bid Yokohama goodbye, and with my too-heavy-for-my-fat-arse rucksack and A’s too-big-for-her suitcase, we hoped on the metro and instigated our invasion of Tokyo.

Wow. It’s so…Tokyo.

We parted ways to find our respective hotels. I’d actually done the smart thing and planned ahead, finding myself a good map and directions. Ikebukuro is much flashier than I thought it would be, and at the same time, not. The pachinko parlours (a bit like pokies, but with a bit of skill required) give off a distinct sleaze vibe. My ryokan is tucked in a quiet side street, and is great. I have a four tatami mat room, which is simple and clean, yet smells rank. Something has died somewhere unfortunate, I know it.

Having dumped my bag, I braved the metro again, this time for Hibiya. A had mentioned she was going to a performance that night, put on by the Takarazuka Revue. I don’t have an internet connection at the moment, but they’re something of a reaction to the old tradition of men playing the roles of women in theatre, in that they’re an all female troupe, and make a point of specialising in women playing male roles. It intrigued me, so with A’s assistance, I snagged myself a ticket to Valencia Passion/Fantasista. Woo!

After lunch in a very air conditioned restaurant, we went to the Imperial Palace East Gardens, the only section of the Imperial Gardens open to the public. It was free entry, which was good, as it was a lot smaller than I had expected. There were some ancient guard houses lining the path in, and I had a little fangirl squeeeeee moment on noticing that the eaves were graced with the hollyhock crest. Unfortunately, it was quite hot and bloody humid, and I think the past few days of running around like a headless chicken were starting to catch up with me. Even more unfortunately, just as we discovered the interesting section with the prefectural flora garden, and the Japanese garden, it decided to dump down on us. Ah, rainy season. (I saw on the news that there’s a typhoon set to swing up and hit us in the next few days. Yay! My first typhoon!)

Sweaty and rain-drenched isn’t the best way to turn up to a theatre performance. We sat in a café and chattered until we were dry, and it was time for the show. The Takarazuka theatre is only a block or so from Hibiya, which is walking distance from the Imperial Gardens. It was quite a lush interior, with thick carpets and great sweeping staircases and wide chandeliers.

I have to say, the Japanese don’t mess around with time. The show was slated to start at 6:30, and so it did, regardless of whether or not everyone was sitting down.

Valencia Passion rocked.

I was given a plot summary with my ticket, and it was one of those convoluted opera plots of betrayal, revenge, intrigue, hopeless loves, and people in disguise. There are always people in disguise. It was fan-fucking-tastic. Like all opera, understanding the language is entirely optional. Women make hot, hot, hot men. They’re bishuonen! Singing, dancing, bishuonen!

Fantasista wasn’t opera. It went off in an entirely different direction, and was more a gala spectacular with more glitter, sequins, feathers, and flashing lights than you can imagine. It was gaudy and outrageous and glitzy and terribly fun. I think David Bowie would have been right at home in amid all that. I had even less idea of what was going on this time, and it didn’t matter (although at some point I think Fantasista was killed, and resurrected as a pimped out Emperor Palpatine).

What I found most interesting was that, although having women cast in male roles was a statement in itself, the fact that the pieces being performed had females characters playing a distant second fiddle to the male characters was as well. I suppose there’s no point in emphasizing women in male roles if the male roles themselves aren’t worth playing, but it struck an odd note with me.

So, if you’re mildly interested in gender play and theatre, and happen to be in Tokyo, the Takarazuka Revue is hella good.

My feet will never forgive me.

This morning, I was supposed to meet A at the Mitaka station at 9:40. I left the ryokan on time. I got on the train on time. I just happened to pick the train that took the longest route between Ikebukuro and Shinjuku. About 30 minutes longer than I expected. Whoopsie. Lesson learned there. Also, peak hour ever ends on these trains. Never.

When I finally arrived, we took the shuttle bus to the Studio Ghibli Museum. Said bus was not a cat bus, which we both agreed is an atrocity.

It was raining when we arrived, so instead of exploring the outside, we went straight in. It was like following the white rabbit, walking into that building. Suddenly, everything was grand and elegant and straight out of a fairy tale. There were little doors and corridors and tight spiral staircases and nooks and ignoring the exhibits, it was fun, fun building.

But I didn’t ignore the exhibits. They were brilliant. There were a couple of rooms dedicated to the fairy tale of the three bears, with one room set up to be the bears’ kitchen. A huge table with the three chairs, and bowls of porriage to play with. I managed to climb on the baby bear’s chair. The papa bear’s chair was enormous, and I wasn’t game to climb it, especially as in the next room were the bears themselves, about 12 feet tall and with freaky freaky eyes.

There was a fantastic exhibit set up like the studio workshop, full of reference material and every wall plastered with concept art, and matte backgrounds, and story boards for the Studio Ghibli movies. It was another squee moment. They were beautiful sketches. The trail through the room revealed the art process, from initial pencil sketches to animation repeats to painting. A couple of sheets of sketches were covered in what I assume were the equivalent of editorial corrections, and I swear, if I had a manuscript returned to me with that much red pen, I’d just throw it out. They’re perfectionists.

The third exhibit gave examples of various forms of animation throughout history, which was just glorious. The spinning wheel of models with the strobe light was the best example of how little it takes to trick the eye into seeing a momentum different from what is there. Unfortunately, no photos were allowed inside. Use your imagination.

The shop was insane. Someone told me Japanese people are very polite and don’t push. Not when there’s merch to be had!

There is a café at the museum, but it was full, and the line to get in went far too long, so we settled for ice cream before catching the not-cat bus back to the station. I found a 7-11 store there, and tested the new ATMs that supposedly accept international cards, with success. I have no idea what the exchange rate is, but I think I’m okay for money so far.

Next to 7-11 was the first actual supermarket I’ve seen since arriving. Fresh fruit! Fresh fucking ATOMIC fruit. Zoooh my gawd, you have never seen fruit so big. Enormous apples! Gobsmackingly huge plums! Gigantic peaches! It was like everything had been bitten by a radioactive spider that had made them all super. I indulged in some grapes. Nom nom nom.

Back in Shinjuku, we embarked on a quest to exchange our vouchers for rail passes, with success. Something I’ve noticed, that I believe is embedded in the culture here, is presentation. The rail passes themselves are things of spectacular shininess, and worth keeping because of this alone.

A successfully booked herself a berth on the sleeper train to Hiroshima, and we set off on another quest to find the locker where she’d left her luggage, which was a hell of a lot harder. Shinjuku is fucking huge. Even bigger than the atomic fruit, and with more levels and shops and corridors. It took us asking three police officers for directions before our objective was met, and lo! There was luggage. There wasn’t much time left though (this was one of those quests with a time limit, you know, those bastard ones). Straight onto the next train leaving on the Yamanote line for Tokyo station.

I tell you now, it is impossible to say goodbye to a friend on a peak hour train in Tokyo. We settled for waving and yelling before the doors closed.

From there, I hit up Akihabara. I don’t think I should have. I hadn’t eaten a meal all day, had been either standing or walking for hours, was probably dehydrated, but what the hell, I was in the area. Straight out the station I got sucked into Gamers, a store packed full of CDs, DVDs, manga, figures and so on. I, er, spent some monies. Then I realised that all of the above, plus the headache I’d been nursing since waking, were about to make me fall over, so I dived into the first feeding hole I found, and had a meal that I didn’t want. BLT sandwiches have never done it for me, but it was better than the falling-over option.

Back on the train, back to my ryokan, back to my room. I’m showered and my chompers are brushed, and now that I’ve had a couple of hours to relax, I’m going to have an early night. May my feet and head forgive me.

Me, and my motherfucking heels

(San-ai Hotel, Yokohama)

I don’t know why, but I felt I had to make a bit of effort for Donburacon, a cruise and dinner around the harbour. I should have stuck with my usual total lack of inclination to dress up. But, dress up I did, and made the hike from hotel to pier in heels. It wasn’t so bad. Not yet, anyway. (Cue drums of impending doom.)

The cruise ship, while having three floor of seating, was packed to capacity. I was among the last on, by which time there was no where to sit, and not much food to be had. I scrounged a tiny and lacklustre plate of spaghetti, and retreated to the Royal Room, which had no food, stage, presentation, but a whole lot of couches and no one else, which was fine with me.

After a slight delay due to someone falling sick and being carted off in an ambulance, the ship left the dock. I’d long finished my dinner, so snuck outside on the walkway, and that was lovely.


(night photography just doesn't work without a tripod and on a moving ship)

The heat and humidity has vanished the last two days, and the night sea breeze was just delicious. It was quiet. Gulls flew along side. The harbour and city lights were so very pretty. Maybe I was greedy, keeping that to myself. Others found it soon enough. Somehow, I ended up pinned in a one-sided conversation by a significant name in the science fiction field who will not be named because I’m pretty sure I have the names of about three science fiction writers confused. Said conversation was largely about how big and strong and unstoppable America was, and how Australia was fine, if ever anyone attacked Australia then America would just blast them, and you know, the only reason the Indonesians stayed out of East Timor when Australia was doing all the dirty work was because the American fleet was just off the horizon, and between the Australian and American Navys, no one could try anything at sea, ‘cause we could just blast them, and a whole lot more that was even more unpalatable. That’s probably enough to name him. I could have lived without this conversation, although it wasn’t without entertainment value.


(so I did this on purpose.)

This was offset by a great conversation with Eileen Gunn, who is a lovely person. I admit, most of the time, I don’t like talking about writing. Wrestling with identity and expectations, and I’m not particularly clear what my stance is on writing, or why I do or don’t do it. It was good to talk shop with Eileen though, perhaps because she appears to wrestle with ‘should’ as well.

At this point, I’d either been walking or standing for a couple of hours, and my feet were not happy. The party floor was vacant when I poked my head in, so I figured I’d head back to the hotel. My good, my feet are fucking mauling me. They’re like lions, and they’re attached to the bottom of my legs, just mauling me. I’m lying in bed, and they’re mauling, chewing, hurting like two great hurting things.

Japanese TV is proving addictive. Inability to comprehend a word is irrelevant, it’s interesting to see what can be understood without language. I have no idea what I’m watching now, but it’s hilarious. This morning, I had the delight of watching (and this is totally misspelt) Tengen Toppen Gurren Langen, as a Sunday morning cartoon, and then calling my brother to tell him this, as he’ll have to wait a couple of days for the fan subs to be released. Sometime yesterday, I was watching a drama concerning a Mary Sue. I knew she was a Mary Sue, because she was very pretty, everyone loved her, and although she was in every scene, she barely said a thing. Every other character carried the story.


(Japanese Sesame Street, oh yes.)

Wait, I think I’m watching a spoof of flight school. The Captain is training his cadets by making them ride bicycles with wings and fuselages attached. And he’s just gone running off really fast again.

ZZZ time.

Two Pillows

(San-ai hotel, Yokohama)

I forgot to mention that on the walk home the previous night, I had the luck of witnessing an apparently significant part of modern Japanese culture; business men going out together after work and getting smashed. There were mobs of them around Sakuragicho Station. My particular favourite were the three who had taken up position on the steps of a coffee shop. One of them had given up any pretence of sobriety, taken off his shoes, and was using them as a pillow in the middle of the footpath. Classy stuff.

I rocked up to the con on Saturday with no real plans in mind, and bumbled into an interview session with Yoshitaka Amano, which was a slow discussion on the illustration industry in Japan, due to frequent pauses for English translation. It was interesting to note the apparent differences in time frames between the Japanese book market, and the English. The editor of the Vampire Hunter D books was also present, and called up on stage to field questions as well. I only remember his name as ‘Ichi-san’, unfortunately.

I had hoped to have Amano sign a book, but after the interview finished up, he fled. Quite literally. A shame, considering he was one of the guests of honor and didn’t seem to want anything to do with the people who had come to see him. I noticed he hadn’t been scheduled for a signing session either, and I’m pretty sure that was his only panel. Crazy.

After that was a panel discussing the pros and cons of mundane science fiction, from which no conclusions were drawn. It almost sounds like science fiction is castrating itself with its attempts to define what it should and shouldn’t be. I’m probably just not playing sponge in the right places, but I don’t think fantasy suffers the same existential angst.

When that finished up, I headed over to the Inter Continental (I keep thinking of it as ‘incontinental’) to meet up with A, Ellen Datlow, and some of Ellen’s other Clarion students. She guilt tripped us about not writing more. It was not without effect. (Thanks to Raj, one of Ellen's better photos of A and I.)

After a quick meal at the Queen’s Square (seriously, who says eating in Japan is expensive? What on earth are they eating?), I dropped off my bags and then headed back for the Hugo Awards.

Dude, best Hugo opening evarh.

Several Ultramen tangled with seven awesome monster costumes in a way old school original brawl on stage. Just like watching the movies, but better quality.



(That's a lot of Ultraman.)

George Takei and Nozomi Omori presented the Hugos, both being bi-lingual, and skipped between languages with an ease that made me suspect that sometimes, they weren’t aware they were doing it.

FYI, Takei’s voice is sex.

No. Really.

Despite the fact that everything had to be said twice, in each language, the presenters and receivers caught on fast, and cut all their speeches short. Ultraman presented the Best Long and Short Dramatic presentation. Sort of. The character of Ultraman doesn’t actually speak.

Did I mention Takei’s voice is sex?

There was a woman brought up on stage to stand with the two hosts. It was hinted she was a ‘back up translator’, when in actual fact, she was an ornament. She stood there, looking very elegant, and serving no other purpose. Given the kafuffle of last year’s Hugos, this seemed…well, bloody daft.

A and I decided it was still too early to hit the party floor, so hunted for dessert. Our prey turned out to be rolled crepes, with whipped cream, custard and strawberries. Nom nom nom.

The party floor was again, ridiculously over-crowded and hot. We made a brief stop in at the Norwegian room to ninja some drinks, before discovering a secret party made of awesome. The Sense of Gender party was in quite a grand suite, and we found a small, not particularly crowded tatami room, that had a window open. Yes! Air! We secured some floor space, which lead to people leaving us offerings of food and drink. I’m not kidding, they kept just putting food in front of us. I tried sake for the first time, a particularly good brand, if I understood the man correctly. Deadly stuff. It was strong, yet it had absolutely not bite to it. It didn’t burn on the way down at all, and was deliciously smooth.

Late and big nights make it hard to get up though, and I’m glad I set me alarm this morning, or I wouldn’t have made it. Slunk into Cory Doctorow’s kaffeeklatch, and played sponge, followed by a panel on copyright. Naomi Novik talked about founding the Organisation for Transformative- crap, I can’t quite remember it. Basically, an organization along the same lines as the Comic Defence Fund, but for fan fiction writers. Word, I say, word. They were pretty much preaching to the choir, but related some pretty interesting and horrifying information. What bothers me most is, given every thing that was said, I think the change in the way copyright works has to come from America, and have a knock on effect through all the Free Trade Agreements America has with various countries. Given the massive influence American policy has on the world, has on Australia, it rankles that I don’t get to vote in their elections. Not that my vote has made a difference in Australian elections anyway.

A trip out to for lunch, which was an enormous sushi set for 1395 yen, which I could actually identify. It contained some atomic wasabi, which blew my nose out several times. We’re both weak people, and hit the mochi ice cream again. Someone import this!

I’d intended to sit in on the Masquerade afterwards, but the start was delayed, so I skipped out. I figured, a couple of hours spent sitting in my hotel room, not doing anything, was due. My feet appreciate it.

I think I had a different cleaner today. Yesterdays seemed to be under the impression that two people were staying in this room; I was left with two sets of slippers, two yukata, two cups, two tea sets, two razors, about five toothbrushes, none of which I’ve used. I did have two pillows though. Alas, only a lone pillow greeted me when I got back.

I love the streets around the hotel. These tiny, cramped one way streets with barely enough room for a single car to drive along. It’s impossible to get your bearings, with the sun hiding in haze and tall buildings on all sides.


(happy love sheep graffiti)

-30 degrees celsius

(Sai-an Hotel, Yokohama)

While there is only one hour difference between Australia and Japan, I was on nightshift. Not all the flying and running around in foreign countries I did unwound my sleep pattern, and I woke at 4am with a screaming headache, and no painkillers. This made me a sad panda.

After a quick perusal of the program, I decided none of the early panels required my presence, and jumped on the subway to Chinatown. It seems weirdly ironic, visiting Chinatown in Japan when I can get all the Chinese food I want at home, but wow. Melbourne’s Chinatown is a sad sorry affair in comparison. This was several knotty city blocks, strung with lanterns and imposing gateways.

Unfortunately, I went to early (around 10) and nothing was open yet. So, back on the subway to worldcon. At least, that was the plan. For some reason, my Suica card didn’t read properly, so I followed the not particularly well translated and probably misunderstood instructions, and inserted it into the ticket reader. Where it jammed. A station attendant appeared quickly, and opened up the whole machine to get it out, reprogram it, and sent me on my way with a speed that suggests it happens pretty often. Still. Whoops. I’ve broken a piece of Japanese public transport. My bad.

Said public transport, by the way, is like a wet dream. Seriously. The trains are cleaned at their terminations, each time, multiple times a day. The seats aren’t damaged. There is no graffiti. I found myself on one of the reknowned ‘women only’ carriages, and it was very pink.

Also, people who say that the trains are always on time, to the minute, are incorrect. Not that a two minute delay is anything out of the ordinary in any country. The difference being, there are trains every few minutes here, as opposed to one every twenty back home.

The dealers room was a bit of a let down after last year. I was expecting to be tempted by all sorts of things, but most of the vendors were Japanese, stocking Japanese texts. My lack of reading skills makes me a sad panda. Japanese books are beautiful, neat little objects, and I coverts them.

I briefly watched a paint off between Bob Eggleton, Michael Whelan and -------- Kato, which was quite fascinating, noting their different approaches. Sat in on a panel discussing hospitals and health in the future, which planted some interesting ideas. Another on what we love to read out of SF, which was good for recommendations. The Tech Savvy Criminal was my only must for the day, dealing with what it takes to be a criminal mastermind in today’s age of increasingly complicated technology and security. The basics I already knew, just from reading the reports at work (don’t be an idiot seems to cover it), but some great and kooky ideas for general mayhem were thrown out, good stuff to chew on.


(paintbrushes at fifty yards two feet)

Afterwards, I found A, and we invaded Queen’s Square, a shopping centre across the road from the con. After much umming and ahhing, we dived into a noodle shop, and despite the fact that clearly, neither of us spoke much Japanese, were given a Japanese menu. I just pointed at a random item, and ended up with tempura and cold soba noodles with dipping sauce. I think that was the first real meal I’d had a in a long while. Some caucasians came in after us, and were given an English menu. Doh. I rather like this pattern of adventure food though. I still have very little idea of what it is I’m eating, but it’s amusing. Not to mention 1,000 yen is very decent for dinner.

The success of dinner drove us to hunt of desert, and we found ‘Mochi Cream’, a shop selling traditional mochi with icecream added in the filling. I satisfied my craving for red beans, and it was most, most delicious. Definitely going back to try the chocolate and fruit flavours. 156 yen is also ridiculously cheap for something so yummy. Someone in Melbourne, import this idea!


(mochi cream of joy!)

Still having some time to kill before the room parties started, we decided it was time to do the Cosmo Clock, apparently the highest ferris wheel in the world. However, we were distracted on the way by ‘Ice World’, which was advertising -30 degrees C and swimming angels. 500 yen is cheap for curiosity.

Oh my good. The best 500 yen I’ve spent.

The entry featured a giant plastic polar bear in a wood log hut, and this tiny tank, filled with even tinier swimming angels. Seriously, they were about a centimetre big, which is not apparent from the photos outside. They looked exactly like some of the monsters from Skies of Arcadia, and this cracked me up. It was cool in that room. Not too bad though.

Then A opened the door to the next section, and swore like a sailor.

They weren’t kidding about the temperature. After we’d laughed ourselves silly at the outrageousness of it, we realised we were quite literally freezing, and fled. It was great, totally freaking awesome.


(...the temperature got to my brain. Plus, that bear was threatening my masculinity, which isn't spelt right. Wait. Eek! Is that a badly positioned hand I see there?)

Gigi, I’ll have you know that the Cosmo Clock was fantastic, and slow, and you wouldn’t have had a problem. Also, gorgeous view at night. It’s silly how beautiful coloured lights are. Cities even more so.


(Minamoto Mirai 21 from the Cosmo Clock)

The party floor turned out to be not quite big enough for the parties it contained. Not just that people had spilled out into the corridor and were sitting in front of the elevators, but that the airconditioning couldn’t handle it. The Aussie bid party was so crowded we were squeezed out. The Kansas party was quiet with good food, and the Seattle party we finally settled, and found some Norwegians who were more than happy to tell us about climbing Fuji-san.

I piked out early. Waking at 4am is wrong, wrong, wrong. Good night.

(Again, apologies for the photos. I feel I must be dumb, but I can't find a simple function to resize images anywhere Eddie that doesn't involve some weird exportation from iPhoto that makes them look blocky as. The pictures are a combination of originals and exports. Let me know which ones suck and which ones don't.)

I BELIEVE IN JOY

(In transit; Changi Airport, Singapore, 2137 local time)

There were people who, upon discovering that I was flying out the same day as finishing nightshift, gave me a look. This look quite clearly said, "you're a lunatic." Start travelling while apeshit and exhausted? Where's the sanity in that?

But Sir Tessa knew what she is doing. Sir Tessa had a plan.

Sir Tessa was so freaking exhausted by the time she shambled onto the plane, that she had curled up and closed her eyes well before taxiing began. Sir Tessa was so out of it, her body was too run down to bother with the whole plane sick thing, and just put her in a coma instead.

I'M NOT SICK. I FEEL FINE. THIS IS A MARVELLOUS THING.

There were also people who insisted that cabin crew will wake you for your meal. Sir Tessa would like to advise the world that this isn't the case.

I feel fine. Really. Not even mildly sort of off feeling. From now on, all flying happens after nightshift. OARSUM. This excites me far more than it should. Bring on the next leg, I say, bring it on.

(Oh wow, that guy looks just like my uncle. But that's not my family he's with. No, he has too much hair to be my uncle.)

Changi is surreal. It's clean, and modern, and organised, and things work. It's one giant shopping centre than just goes on, and on, and on, over this strange green carpet. I'm sitting in front of a travellator, watching people speed past. Better than sitting on trains, this. The security guards amuse me, in their black uniforms and their black caps and their semi-automatics pointed at the carpert and the lazy way they slide past on the travellator. They polish their boots, but only the toe. Their toes shine like the best of them; the rest of the boot doesn't.

I'm not sick. I feel fine.

Is this how normal people feel when they travel? What tyranny have I been labouring under? Why, motion sickness, why?

Nippon wa totemo midori desu.

(San-ai Hotel, Yokohama, absolutely buggered. 29-08-2007 7.22pm local time.)

There’s a line from Fight Club that I’m going to misquote. Something along the lines of, “if you wake up in another place, in another time, do you wake up a different person?” It’s a concept I like. Alas, every time I test the theory, I fail. If I’m a different person, it’s on such a macroscopic scale, it’s irrelevant. I mean, I could have at least woken up, I don’t know, taller. Smaller boobs. Less inclination to swear.

But I failed to get plane sick again, and maybe that’s enough of a difference. You know what this means, right? At last, I can take over the world. I couldn’t before, because no conquering emperor who disembarks their private jet and chunders all over the tarmac is going to be taken seriously. Nothing can stop me now.

The leg from Singapore to Tokyo was just as eventless. I slept. And slept. And missed the midnight snack but didn’t care, munged some jelly beans, and slept, and slept, and finally, yes, I was awake for breakfast. Eggs and ham or Japanese? Why wait to get to Japan? So I started my adventure feeding on the plane, and had salmon and rice for breakfast. There was some completely unidentifiable thing in with the vegetables; it was gelatinous, multi-coloured, star-shaped, and stuck to the plate. Nan desu ka? I asked myself, and even more importantly (which I shall have to find the Japanese phrase for), can you eat it? I ate it. It was entirely uninteresting. Thus ends my adventures with aeroplane food.

Narita Airport shocked me. What is this, a second major international airport that isn’t a trash heap of over-used portable buildings? It was clean! Repaired! The air-conditioning in the immigration hall worked! The immigration officer smiled! The customs official flirted! LAX can eat my shorts.

And just like that, I was in the country.

Maybe it was the lack of sickness, or the addition of sleep, but I didn’t feel intimidated by this, which surprised me. At no point in the lead up to this did I do my “oh fuck no what on earth am I doing?” doubt/fear attack. I was expecting it to hit me once I was on the ground. But no, I’m here. I’m just here, and it’s not a huge scary thing, it just is. Is this what being a grown up feels like?

Tickets for the Narita Express to Yokohama were ridiculously easy to buy, and the station easy to find. I was mildly thrown by the fact that not just seats were allocated, but carriages (as the train splits at Tokyo station and goes to alternate destinations), but a fumbled Japanese question to a policeman who spoke perfect English cleared that.

The train left the under ground, and I watched suburban Japan go by. The hour and a half trip to Yokohama went ridiculously fast. What vegetation there was, was green, astonishingly overwhelmingly green, and what housing there was, was tight, compact. Against a sky so full of humidity it was grey, it reminded me of Malaysia. I gawked out the window at all the ordinary differences.

And got train sick.

Shut up.


(The juice I bought from the trolley lady had all that in it. ALL. THAT. It tasted like apple juice to me.)

Yokohama station was surprisingly skungy, in that used hard and long and every single day sort of way. Me and my rucksack and backpack stumbled off, and set off on a great quest – to transfer to another line. Which would have been much easier if I’d done the intelligent and organised thing, and written down the line and station I needed. So I molested the Japanese language again, found my platform, ad libbed my way through the ticket buying process (I have a Suica card, and the penguin is very cute), and lumbered onto the next train going in the right direction. Trains, they’re the same in every country. They only run where the rails run. Comforting fact; the English names of the stations next on the line in both directions are written on the station signs.

One stop later, one more station escaped from, and I set off on the quest part 2 – find hotel.

The map I had wasn’t in English, but you don’t need language for maps. A sense of direction, distance, and what size streets were shown/not shown helps though. I sort of maybe kinda walked around in circles, in these amazing dense city blocks, and only found the hotel by accident. It was humid as all hell, and my shoulders didn't appreciate lugging my rucksack around all that time.

It was too early for check in, so I set off to find Pacifico Yokohama, home of Worldcon. This time, I didn’t even need a sense of direction, as it’s big and kind of hard to miss. But, well, me so dumb, I decided to bypass some of the busier roads by cutting through the subway, got completely turned around underground, and ended up going in circles again. Won’t be repeating that. I still managed to pick the wrong roads and get funnelled by bridges into going in the wrong direction, and ended up in a food court where I bought more unidentifiable food (something I thought was melon bread, but I don’t think it is, and a mystery bun that turned out to have pickled sea weed and greens with chilli, mmmm!), before finally seeing some very not-Japanese people who gave off a distinct nerd vibe, and followed them.

Who let me loose in a foreign land?

Before I’d even made it to registration, I found A, of Clarion South notoriety. Yay! And before we’d even left the building, we found Ellen Datlow. Yay! It was great to find a familiar face, and have someone to go “wow!” with.


(The Yokohama Landmark Tower, which as A pointed out, looks rather like Orthanc.)

We attended one panel, debating the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis, that language influences/controls how you think, and that the structures and concepts of a language alter your thought processes. It was fascinating, and I’m so tired I can’t remember any of it. I had to bid A goodbye, and stumble back to the hotel. A long hot bath hasn’t quite worked the ache out of my shoulders.

I’m eating a very traditional Japanese dinner at my room desk; a bento set bought from 7-11. I’ve only been able to identify half of what I’ve put in my mouth. It’s not exactly a learning experience, but there’s no lack of fun in mystery food.


(550 Yen!)

I was half considering venturing out tonight, to conquer the ferris wheel, but, ugh. Sleep.

(Post backdated to time of writing. More later, gots to run. Apologise for the uber large and sideways images, in kind of a rush.)

I don't think you can set out on a venture such as this without harbouring expectations. I try to trade expectations for hope, as hope leads to less disappointment.

I hope I don't lose my passport. I hope the yakuza don't kidnap me. I hope I have a great time.

I hope this takes me so far from everything I know, and everything I think I know, and reboots my head.

I don't believe in finding yourself, sorting yourself out, and all that. But I do believe in reset buttons.

Anyway. Going to Japan. AFK. BBL.

OH HAI GUYS

It's the 04:11am, and I think you should know that this post does NOT have germs.

 

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Here. To atone for the last several bouts of (to steal Deb's term) batshit insanity, I give you a present.



Inside this box is exactly how it feels to drive home after nightshift. The world is abysmally empty in the small hours of the night, but once in the car, out the building, there is light, there is life. There is that giddy feeling of freedom, of going home, the relief that bed is not so far away. There is a sunrise, sometimes, a glorious sunrise, just like this morning, with high clouds and a faint and distant rain that caught the sun, and the whole sky glowed golden and rich. There is a highway backed up on the inbound, but empty on the outbound, four lanes of 100 km p/h.

This is a secret time. In this time, I forgive nightshift entirely. I tell myself that I don't really want to give this up at all.

You'll notice that there's no way into this box. That's because you are all smart bunnies, and know better than to fall into the trap of shiftwork. Chances are, you'll never know what this feels like.

But I think you should have it anyway.

get down with the geeeeeeeniiiiiiiiiiiieeee



Look at all those people. Each of them discovered that Mr Vandermeer only ever links me when I'm a feral, mangy, moon-mad monkey, and an easily amused one at that. I spent the shift checking my stats. "Aw, lookit! Another one! MAD FOOLS!"

I'd also accuse him of only linking when there's a really bad photo of me on the front page, except the likelihood of there not being a really bad photo present is pretty slim.

Anyway, look at this!



It's an oarfish. When I first saw that photo, my hackles went up. I didn't see an oar, I saw a huge, freaking huge, long razorblade fish just hanging in the water, and I could imagine swimming around happily, unable to see said razorblade fish straight on, and swimming into it, and chopping myself in half. A collision with a swimming samurai sword.

Which isn't how they work, thankfully.

But that would be cool.

I get the impression that they're not particularly bright fishes, having read this account of When Oarfish Attack!

Suddenly and with great vigor, the creature ceased it’s circling and swam rapidly toward us. It was quite a startling movement. One of us had picked up a smooth rock and the rock was used to crush the its head as it approached. It died instantly without any further movement.

They weren't even knee deep in the water then. And oarfish, these super stylin' samurai sword fish, they don't really have angry attack mouths, yanno?

OMG! HAHA! ROCK BEATS SCISSORS SAMURAI SWORD!

Moving right along.

Tourist Attraction Shark Dies, which is sad. It's always sad when a 2 metre shark dies. And yet, and yet.

Biologists captured the 90kg fish on Monday in knee-high water at a beach called Miracle in northeast Tarragona province, grabbing it with their bare hands and dragging it ashore.

Dude. They wrestled a 2 metre shark and won. I lol'd so hard I was in tears. Can you just imagine the poor shark? "HOLY FUCK SOMEONE SAVE ME FROM THESE MONKEYS! THEY'VE GOT MY TAIL! MY TAAAAAAAAIIIIIL!"

No more fishies from here on, I swear.

Irony is decrying how not-a-writer I am, and then having the two stories of mine due for publication both end up in my inbox, requiring editing/proofing/writerly attention immediately. I've broken my cardinal rules of never proofing after midnight and never attempting to be intelligent on nightshift.

The larger story I don't think I've even sniffed at for over a year. It was a relief to find that it didn't suck, but I'm worried by the fact that I like it. I think liking your own work is like putting your newborn baby in the microwave for safe-keeping. No one ever agrees with you.

I had a mighty revelation on the drive to work last night. Oh verily, was it mighty. When Carroll was writing about the white rabbit, he was actually writing about the white lines on the road, and the whole trippy journey through Wonderland, that is actually a metaphour for driving at night when you're delirious. Follow the white rabbit/follow the white line. He knew. The man knew what he was writing about. Something about night driving, all the street lights and car lights and shop lights, and all those lights reflecting and moving, and all the dark spaces, he knew.

Do not point out the logic flaws in that paragraph. Srsly.

Now, in case you were wondering where all these long raving mental dribbles have come from, I shall tell you. One word: procrastination.

I fly out Wednesday afternoon. Therefore, I must pack.

I dun like packing. It makes me want to do procrastinatory things, like give the dogs pedicures. I don't think my relationship with the dogs would survive this activity. I guess I'll just pack.

Someone arrived here by googling the phrase "baby head burning odor".

I can't decide how to respond to that. There are just too many options.

I just spent several minutes of my life, staring at this picture -



- trying to figure out why it was so funny. Then, DING! I was enlightened! IT IS A SERIOUS ISOPODE.



DO YOU NOT SEE THE SIMILARITIES?!?!?!?!?!





Yeah yeah, I know. Don't worry. I'm going to bed now.

I feel like a deep-sea glass squid:



I suspect I look like a Snaggletooth:



I would love to be a Dumbo Octopus:



(That isn't a sense of humor, that's a mind cracking up. My anticipation of discovering a new country is far outstripped by my anticipation of finishing nightshift. Dear higher power, let me keep my shit together for three more nights. Wait, scratch that. Let me not lose my shit any further than I already have, for oh my goodness have I lost my shit, it's on the walls, man, the walls, and I think other people have noticed, and this, this is just ugly, there's only so much damage control I can do, so no more spontaneous, provoked or unprovoked nuclear meltdowns, for three more nights.)

(Deep sea beasties, they're the awesome. I should have stuck with my grade 6 urge, and become a marine biologist. My view of the world would be much nicer if I had more anglerfish in my life.)

(Photos from Bounty Fishing Blog: 27 Aquatic Lifeforms You Never Caught While Fishing, snagged from haha.nu)

ETA: Someone, remind me to buy The Deep when I get back.

let's make out on the balcony

Michael Doughty used to front for Soul Coughing, and if you aren't familiar with the band, amend that right now. That is some good edge rock, that is.

Doughty has released his own album, Haughty Melodic, which contains the song "I Hear the Bells".

I love this song. It puts me in a better mood, triumphant without arrogance, and light without glaring, and great to sing along to. Maybe I sort of put it on repeat in the car, a little bit. Visit the myspace link and have a listen. It'll do your ears some good.

(Rec from Becca)

I got home this morning, and the newspaper horoscope said I had 'cosmic jetlag'. I read that, and my reaction was, "oh, cosmic jetlag, well, that explains everything." Do you think work would take cosmic jetlag as an excuse not to turn up?

Then I ate some toast, and felt much better.

Note to self: you just had a haircut. Stick to towel drying.

i'm a rabbit, i'm a rabbit, i'm a fox

In case you missed it, but your probably didn't, but you might have saved it for later and maybe forgotten bout it, in which case this is a reminder - Jeff Vandermeer's short movie for Shriek is online. Go use up some bandwidth. The voice acting is quite luscious, and it falls half way between being read to, or in the range of a fascinating conversation that isn't yours.

I recently finished reading Ghost in the Shell 2: Man-Machine Interface. It took me about three months to do this, because it was just that bad. I'm not even going to go into it. What struck me though, was the sheer amount of authorial notes scattered through the pages. There are artist notes, about whether or not he should have drawn her nipples (no exaggeration), design notes on why the motor bikes are kind of lame (then why did you put them in?!), and tech notes on exactly what is going on at any given time, because just reading the actual comic won't tell you that. They're everywhere! I could not escape the author tapping me on the shoulder.

Even in a story I'm not enjoying, this isn't a good thing. Every now and again it is an interesting diversion, but with this concentration, it was nothing but a huge distraction. An obnoxious one at that. Trust your reader, or trust your work. If it's really necessary, end notes are your friend.

Finally, I give you a video of a $40,000,000 US military satellite exploding (filched from haha.nu).



Impressive, no? When I grow up, I want to be a military satellite with a 17 foot crack in my fuel pipe.

I have to wonder how a 17 foot crack goes unnoticed.

Well...I guess cracks go unnoticed in people all the time. They're not always in easy to see places.

Do you think car insurance costs more around Cape Canaveral?

and so she can't complain

Dear the Australian Dollar,

Please stop that shit.

Sincerely,
Sir Tessa.

#

After being certain, and being wrong, I did some not particularly thorough trawling on the subject of certainty. There isn't much to be had. A smattering of philosophy, and articles on physics. Uncertainty, it would seem, is a much more meaty topic. I wanted brain scans, actually. I wanted those funky orange, black and blue photos of brain activity, so I could see what certainty actually looked like. Maybe even what hormones make up certainty. I figure, if i find out where certainty lives, at least I have a target.

Doubt is much easier to pin down. Doubt is everywhere. I am, therefore I doubt.

#

Dear Japan Rail,

The rail passes were supposed to arrive last week. Hint, hint.

Sincerely,
Sir Tessa.

#

Sophie is depressed.

She won't play. She just sits, and whimpers in the most heart-breaking and pathetic manner imaginable. She isn't off her food or drink, she's just miserable. The lead theory is that she misses Dad, but he's gone to Malaysia before without this happening.

You have no idea how upsetting a depressed dog is.

#

Dear Sir Tessa,

You suck.

No love,
Sir Tessa.

#

If I could manufacture certainty, I'd eradicate those oh-so mediocre self-esteem issues. Imagine how much more I could squeeze into a day if I didn't spend so much time and energy on self-loathing. I could create cold fusion. Abolish starvation. Write a fucking book.

Whoa. Delusions of grandure.

#

Dear World,

I'm down, quit kicking.

Even less than no love,
Sir Tessa.

#

But you know, the narrative laws of my life dictate that an injection of certainty would concrete exactly the wrong area. Instead of being pretty sure that I'm a useless sack of meat, I'd be certain of it. That would kill all motivation to roll with the momentum of life, so I'd lose my job pretty fast, wouldn't write, wouldn't get out of bed, probably wouldn't bother waking up, because seriously, when you're a useless sack of meat, there isn't much point with the whole being awake thing.

And then, because the narrative laws of my life dictact that Thou Shalt Not Have Any Excuse To Sleep Like A Lazy Snoring Bear As Thou Doest Desire, my own super-charged-mutated-giant-walrus doubt would come into play, and I wouldn't be certain of my uselessness as a meat sack. This would leave me with no alternative but wakefulness.

Shit. This hypothesis is fucking lame. Where's the reset button?

#

Dear World,

You're also too fat. Please lose some weight, and shrink the distance between this family.

Much Despising,
Sir Tessa.

#

I did a little reading on Descartes, not that he had much to say on the subject of certainty, other than he wasn't certain of much at all. The only thing he really concludes is that his own existence is certain. This is a conclusion that can only be drawn about the concluder, by the concluder. So, I cannot be certain about sun rises, or chairs, or that ever perplexing subject of the colour orange, but I can be certain I exist.

I think life would be ever so much nicer if I could trade that certainty for, say, the certainty that flowers sing only in barbershop quartets.

But I can't be certain of that.

#

Dear Sir Tessa,

Seriously. Shut up.

Much Tolerance,
The World.

...even my spam is telling me to cheer up.

red wine with every meal and absinthe after dinner

• Haha! I'm not hungover!
• There exists no make-up that will stop an asian-blooded monkey from going red when drinking.
• When I make an effort, I am hot. Damn hot. So hot, heads turn and people say, "Wow, Tess, you look hot!" and they all sound surprised.
• This is why I never make an effort. I have to hide my hotness away, or there will conferences and summits about how I contribute to global warming.
• With my bright red face.
• But, you know, if ever Rudolf is retrenched, I could totally take his job. Only his nose was red. I'm a fucking lighthouse.
• Although I don't think I'm all that keen to be harnessed up by a jolly fat man.
• And I'm not that into manual labour.
• He can pull his own sleigh. Would help lower his blood pressure.
• Plus I bet he doesn't pay much for one night of work a year.
• Nah, fuck it. He can install spotlights like all the other rednecks.

PS: T minus 12 days and counting.

and don't bother leaving the light on

I was certain today would be different.

This certainty was unprompted. It wasn't like the certainty that concrete is hard, water is wet, I am a typist, those tried and tested and proved irrefutable facts. It wasn't highly probably either, as there were no plans for today that would alter it significantly from every other day. I just knew today would be different.

But I woke up, and I was still me.

And I stepped out, and the world stayed in character.

I don't know what I was expecting-

(...a sky so green, so lush and verdant, that as we stood in the streets marvelling at it, a hundred thousand dandylions bloomed in the clouds, and showered us in seeds and fluff.)

(...a pink unicorn to come charging into the office, atop Yul Brynner, prancing and dancing, and saying "Dollface, have I got a ride for you.")

(...I would put on my earphones and press play, and instead of music my iPod would tell me, in hushed and fearful tones, the truth about the moon landing.)

(...all the buildings in the city to unhinge and unfold and dance, townhouses gamboling about the feet of the sky scrapers, and no pigeons seen for another hundred years.)

(...no people, only sharks, so many sharks, walking the streets and smiling shark smiles.)

(...a stranger to say, "You know, it's okay.")

-but it hasn't happened. It won't happen. I am as certain of that, as I am certain today will be different. They contradict each other, and they're both true. What a daft, illogical, frustrating thing a mind is. How am I supposed to know where the ground is, carrying around a contradiction like that? How can I trust anything I think when the things I am certain about are wrong, wrong, wrong?

I've been here before.

Today will not be different.

Overclocked: Stories of the Future Present - Cory Doctorow



Hehe. Heh. That was cool.

A collection of not-very-short stories (bar one) which concern the future, but not the distant future. The story Anda's Game could quite possibly be present tense, happening right now, somewhere in the many MMORPGs out there. Shifting the sense of 'possible but not in my lifetime' to 'this could happen far too soon' gives the collection a marvellous frisson. Just as we watch disaster films and true crime shows, a sense of impending doom is disgustingly addictive. There isn't much dignity to be found in the dooms offered here.

When Sysadmins Ruled the Earth made me laugh and groan to begin with; I remember being woken up at obscure hours due to living with an oncall sysadmin. Thankfully, the world didn't end whenever I was trying to get back to sleep. This story seemed to wibble a bit, just as the characters lost their own sense of purpose or direction, but it remains a great piece, and delightfully chewy stuff for the brain.

Another favourite, I, Row-Boat had me giggling for the whole fifty pages. In a future where the majority of the human race consists not of walking meatbags, but uploaded consciousnessesseses, and conscious sentient intelligent robots exercise free will on the Earth, someone has taken it upon themselves to start awakening and connecting...pretty much everything, from the sound of it. Robbie the Rowboat, whose days normally consist of shuttling out human shells for day dives on the Great Barrier Reef, has to deal with one of these newly awakened consciousnesesesessses, namely, a reef.

The reef is kinda pissy. It is hiiii-larious, in that sad, grieving sort of way. I can't help thinking that in such a world, there are no humans. The homo tree we are a part of is largely defined by physical characteristics; if there is no physical, then is there a species? Does it matter anymore?

Also had a "HEY! I KNOW HER!" moment when Kate's full name was revealed. After which I was unable to see the character the same way again, but oh well.

Favourite, absolutely favourite, is the final story, After the Siege.

...I've deleted about five stalled paragraphs attempting to summarise this story, and how deep it went. I don't think I can do it justice. On the surface, it follows Valentine, a girl becoming a woman whose city is devastated and starved and ground to dust by war, as is her home, her family, everything she knows. They starve. They die. They lose. Yet in the city is one who is well fed, well dressed, has the cure to all the things that kill those who aren't dying on the front lines. Valentine finds that person, and doesn't accept their reasons and excuses, and eventually forces them to stop the slaughter, instead of watching.

The author notes mention AIDS treatment and copyright as a comparison. It is true. This story alone is enough reason to buy the book. It is well bloody brilliant.

There are others I haven't mentioned, all very much tasty and scrumptions, but these three stood out. Most excellent.

Verdict: Totally worth your time and money. The book is available for download under a CC licence, but seriously, just fork out the money and buy it.

i've been thinking about a broken line



I know nothing about Jon Protas, other than what his myspace page says, other than he's a musician. He was recommended by the every funky Martha, and given she's a member of Trocadero, we can only trust her taste in music.

I'm abusing the fuck out of No Buses Leaving. To truly appreciate this song, your headspace should be--

--well, a bit fucking bleak, really.

think i never killed a man
been thinking 'bout the wrong things at the wrong time
turn his hand against himself
and the things he loves

i've been thinking about a broken line
of old connections starting out in springtime
disconnecting on the way
quiet by the road

and i've been thinking where a life should go
and wondering as hard enough to keep myself
from answering

how it is i wound up here

i don't even know this place

i don't know what i'm doing here

and all the empty yards and hollow houses
all arranged in solitary segments

and there's no one in the streets

it shouldn't bother me

but i've been thinking where a life should go
and thinking it should always travel forward
thinking it should never wind up here

i'm thinking i should hop on the next bus heading out of town
but i
i see no buses leaving
i
i see no buses leaving

(Lyrics transcribed by ear and probably wrong, but close enough to be right.)

It's a good song, good piece of music. I can't find any album or such to buy, unfortunately. So I do my part to smear him around the intrawebs a bit.

(Here is a photo of people waiting for trains, waiting to go home, just generally waiting.)

I zoned out.

When I zoned in, I was singing along to Avril Lavigne, and it was good. The end is nigh. Make soylent green out of me now.

Quickies

I stopped writing up the books I've read, for reasons absolutely saturated in self-pity and horseshit. But the write ups are actually the best way of counting up how much I've read in a year, so, sally forth, as they say.



Picture might look funny; the camera on Eddie flips images, and I can't hold books steady. Even with both hands. Fail.

Blindsight - Peter Watts
First ran into this book at worldcon last year, with that most scrumptious woman Nadini. A couple of months later, I picked it up while in Sydney. Many months later, I read it, and loved it. Such a lonely, unfriendly, isolating book. I wasn't in a great headspace at the time (wow, like that's new), and a story set in the emptiness and hostility of space felt entirely right. A crew of specialised freaks is sent out to investigate possible alien contact, which turns out to be this giant thing; Rorschach. In the middle of everything that is threatening and unknown, the question is asked, 'what is self-awareness good for?' and oh, what a good question. I obsess over it still, I chew it over between turning the light out and falling asleep, while on the train, while not working at work. None of the answers I come up with a nice ones. That's okay. Neither was the book. There is a very good reason this is nomianted for a Hugo: it is roxxor.

Natural History - Justina Robson
I've had this book for ages. I don't entirely remember where or when I bought it. But I wasn't done with stories-set-in-the-vast-emptiness-of-space books, so I munched on it. It wasn't quite what I wanted; this space lacked the isolation I was sniffing for, as each character was connected to the rest of the known universe by intrawebs. The characters were nicer, in fact Zephyr was down right likeable. It was largely a story of trascendence, which wasn't as tightly written as I expected. Possibly I was distracted by story elements that were too similar to some in my own WIP. That Westerfeld guy informed that the reason people keep publishing books containing my ideas is that I write too slowly. I prefer to think I'm derivative, like the best of the wannabe writers out there. It was a good read, but not the right book to follow the one before.

Vampire Hunter D: Mysterous Journey to the North Sea (Part One) - Hideyuki Kikuchi
It's D. Doing his thang.
Actually, this book was more interesting than the previous ones, as the heroin isn't some perfectly beautiful little waif. She's quite plain and practical, and not a brat either. You go, girl. We'll see if it lasts into the next volume.

Calling You - Otsu-ichi
Three novellas, each one stark and soft and raw and tear-inducing. The first was a girl who had an imaginary phone in her head, which is far more beautiful than it sounds. The second is a boy who takes the injuries of others onto himself, which isn't a new idea, but is wonderfully drawn out. The third is a sad, sad song of flowers. Each story has a touch of wonder to it, and each deals with loneliness quietly, quietly. This isn't a big read. I ate it in an hour. Investigate. It will surprise you.

Temeraire: His Majesty's Dragon, Throne of Jade, Black Powder War - Naomi Novik
I've had these books for ages. A combination of Justine nagging me and actually having a second Hugo nominated book on my shelves prompted me to hurry up and read them. The first was a delight; like reading the Pern books again, I wanted want my own dragon; like discovering Hornblower again, I want my own square-rigger. What ho! A good frolic in the Napoleonic Wars with big roarming beasties, who could ask for more? Not I. The second book had less shine, but in itself was quite interesting concerning the politics of dragons. The third book felt very much like filler; our heroes must get back from China to England somehow, in order for the rest of the story unfold, and the final defeat of Napoleon to take place. Black Powder War is that getting from A to B. Fun books, yes indeed.

I'm not really a writer. And I'm a lazy reader. All this is just life spent pointlessly.

Japan Sinks - Sakyo Komatsu (or is that Komatsu Sakyo?)



Morris read this and said, "oh yeah, shit like this happened when the dinosaurs were wiped out, YOU'RE SCREWED." I'm inclined to agree with him, from the safety of Australia.

You'll never believe where I found this book. In a second hand book shop in Gardner, the small two saloon town at the entrance of Yellowstone while I was doing my trek last year. It was one of those moments of "o rly? YA RLY!" I wasn't looking for it, and yet there it was.

You can't really go past the title as far as story summaries go. It's about Japan, which sinks into the ocean. YA RLY. Well, no. It's about looking at the possibility of something that catastrophic occurring, and what to do about it. Would you believe it, given all the facts? I can't say I would. Say you accept the inevitability, what then? How do you prepare for the physical loss of a nation, the displacement of millions and millions of people?

How do you deal with the disappearance of your entire civilisation?

That is what the book is really about. It's crushing and devastating. There isn't an enemy to be angry at, it is just the Earth, doing its thing. Unstoppable continental drift, which won't be intimidated or reasoned with. It comes down to getting the population off the islands before its too late.

Australia makes an embarassing appearance, with the Prime Minister being approached by the Japanese ambassador, requesting the immigration of five million japanese workers. About a third of the Australian population at the time, a time which comes shortly after the abolition of the White Australia Policy. I cringed.

One scene that stood out vividly in my mind was a collection of international diplomats leaving a conference to check out the TV, a broadcast of the beginning of Japan's destruction on the tube, and of one man looking back to see the Japanese ambassador remove his glasses, and wipe his eyes, before putting them back on.

Even abridged as it is, this book was a punch in the guts.

Verdict: Depressing and upseting and very, very powerful.

Arthur & George - Julian Barnes



Rav Deeves (that's his name, serious, it was on the box) is all "eh, whatever," about this book. I wouldn't put it like that, but the sentiment is the same.

I first read Barnes in university, and there was much love involved. For years, I'd intended to eat more of his books, but only now got around to it, and I have to confess that the physical beauty of the book was a fair chunk of the motivation. Cloth-bound books are just nice to stroke. No, stroking books is not weird. Shut up. Stop looking at me like that.

This book, well, it didn't trigger the big love boom I was hoping. It is very well written, and an intriguing look at the vastly different lives of Arthur (that's Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to you) and George, who probably would have never met had it not been for whim. Life, you know, she's a whimsical creature. But meet they do, and Arthur is not the gallant knight he wishes to be, although he almost convinces the reader otherwise. George is not a helpless victim of hate, although it is tempting to paint him so.

The England of fiction remains a strange soggy place, and I find that the mental landscape it creates in my head tends to be dreary, bleak, and colourless, and as much as I wanted to enjoy the book, that sort of saturation is a downer.

I guess I'm not academic or intellectual enough, because I reached the end, and after their lives were spent and all had failed and been achieved, I thought to myself, "yes, and?" Perhaps the fact that it reads in a somewhat autobiographical manner brought that on - lives don't have a point, they just happen, and then they end. The last three lines;


What does he see?
What did he see?
What will he see?

and in fact the last scene of Arthur's funeral knocked down the interesting structure of thought I'd built on this story. Perhaps that is the point. What you want to know, what you think you know, all of these things are-

Verdict: Eh. A lot of people loved it, but it didn't rock my world.

Kamakazi Girls - Novala Takemoto



Leonardo totally approves of this book, because Leonardo is in touch with his feminine side.

I agree with Leonardo. I don't remember exactly why I picked up this book, but I'm glad I did. I went through a brief, three book stint of not particularly wanting to read any speculative genres, and I think this was the most fun of those books, and the most surprisingly awesome bestest.

(Disclaimer: I've just come off nightshift and I'm doing my staying up through the day to crash my sleep pattern back to normal. I'm not responsible for anything. At all. Ever. Not even my sentences.)

It is the story of two girls, one a Yanki and the other a Lolita, practically polar opposites when it comes to subcultures. Of course they fall in with each other, they're doomed to from the very beginning.

This is not the story of their growing friendship. Ichigo's impassioned speech at the end summarises precisely why they're not friends, and exactly why they'll always be there for each other. It is a story of being true to yourself, no matter what the cost.

At first, I was appalled at Momoko's first person narration. A Lolita consumed by an intense pursuit for a Rococo spirit and lifestyle, she came across as gobsmackingly selfish, self-aborbed, shallow and callous. It isn't a large book, but after the first chapter I did wonder if I wanted to put up with her the whole way. This wondering happened while I read, and read, and found myself deep in the book. First impressions, you know, they really aren't everything. The selfishness and callousness were the symptoms of a breath-stealing determination to pursue her dream, no matter what the cost. No matter what thet cost. She discard practicality and comfort and friends and company for this dream ofa Rococo lifestyle. Beneath the frills and lace, she's fucking hardcore.

Ichigo initially comes across as a naive fool, striving to be fulfill that Yanki dream of riding around in a biker gang until getting knocked up and having a shotgun wedding and 'graduating', although she failed her motorcycle licence test and only rides a scooter. It's easy to assume she's yet another dumb girl being led astray by falling in with the wrong crowd, but like Momoko, it's a first impression, and like Momoko, she's chasing her dream down, damn the consequences.

"Because Yanki are so uncool."
"Did you just dis my entire life?"
"Well, yeah."
"I'll fucking kick your ass."
"Go ahead, if you want to."
"You ask me, you're the one who's uncool, wearing those frilly-ass outfits when you're in high school already."
"They're not 'frilly-ass', they're Lolita."
"What's the fucking difference?"
"There's a world of difference."
"I'll kill you, I swear."
"Go ahead."

I love it. The book is full of clashes just like that. Neither grasps the other's choice, both thinks the other is just fucking ridiculous, and I want to reach in and tell them they're both daft and brillant.

This book is very well written, and exceptionally well translated. At no point did I feel that I was reading a translation, real care has be put into the english version. It isn't translated, it's written.

I want to say it isn't a girly book, because it isn't...but I think that maybe only girls will really get it.

Verdict: This is not a "heart-warming tale of two girls growing up in the country", it is a brilliant, brilliant, brillant piece of writing about knowing who you are.

That Camera Is Not Neenja

The train pulled into the station, the door opened, he set up his tripod, pointed and clicked.

Apparently he wasn't entirely satisfied with whatever showed up on the screen of his enormous DSLR, because he went for a second shot, and when he looked up, noticed that I'd noticed him photographing me, and was leering in an entirely "Haha, caught ya!" manner.

His smile wasn't entirely comfortable. I think I busted my chance of appearing in a photography exhibition with a caption along the lines of "Unknown Commuter Zombie, 7:08 Glen Waverley, Southern Cross on Spencer Street".

FUCK

I've lost my white hair. It's gone. Almost, ALMOST a year, and it just had to fall out. Now it'll take me another 25 years to grow another.

and the world just happens

A couple of family members who I happen to live with forgot my birthday was imminent. One them only remembered 8 hours before the clock ticked over midnight because the one family member that did remember asked if they remembered.

The fact that I forgot my birthday was coming too is quite irrelevent.

The only way to sing in such a birthday is to go and harass online roleplayers while in a mildly intoxicated state until 3 in the morning. Far more entertaining than it sounds.

Last year, I was proud to turn 25. It's a nice shiny number, 25, and a big number at that. Look how long I've hung around this Earth, 25 years, remarkable!

This year, not so much.

I am 26 years old and I still live with my parents, in the same room I spent the first 18 years of my life. I have a university degree that is useless, and a job that does nothing, goes nowhere, provides me with no skills I can apply elsewhere, and is neither challenging or stimulating. I don't have a significant other of any description, or children, or the potential for either on the horizon. I haven't seen the world, I haven't changed the world, I have achieved nothing of significance and I STILL HAVEN'T FINISHED WRITING A BOOK. ANY FUCKING BOOK.

The cake was nice though.

Warm-blooded Sunshine Batteries

I don't think I get much physical contact. The other day, someone put their hand on my arm, and my brain went "Oh!" It was the sort of "Oh!" that happens when you rediscover something that you hadn't realised you'd forgotten, like the smell of pine trees, or the taste really good cheese.

Wow. Other people are so warm.

It was exactly like sunshine, that perfect snuggly sunshine in Spring that I go nuts about. And I'm going nuts now. It isn't about sex, or affection, or raffirming my existence as a human being, but just how deliciously warm it was. I need to find someone who won't be freaked out if I say, "er, can I, like, maybe, sorta hold your hand for a bit?"

(I daresay this has been brought on by the fact that Melbourne just faceplanted into Winter in true Melbourne fashion, and I'm cold all the time. That said, if you can't find another human being to warm your bed for you, I can confirm that two dogs and a hot water bottle do an adequate job.)