It can take minutes for my alarm clock to drill down through my dreams and the barricades of sleep. "Minutes" is plural, and not specific. "Minutes" could mean four, or forty (frequently, it means forty). When the radio (being my second alarm; I never hear the first ten minutes of obnoxious beeper alarm) finally registers as external and irritating, I do not wake. Instead, I'll ascend near the surface of waking, only close enough to have gross motor functions and slap the snooze button.
This generally goes on for an hour.
(Do not ask how early I set my alarm.)
Some people can leap out of bed right on waking. I'm not one of those people. My brain needs several run ups before it can work up the gumption to breach the surface and wake the fuck up.
This morning, I heard the radio within a minute. The music dove straight down like sugar-coated electricity, and my mind shot up, wild-eyed and quite awake, and I listened.
I thought it was bagpipes at first, but it was the war cry of the fiercely needless. Deep booming drums. Addictive stick rhythm. And then they started singing.
I was awake, so very awake, shocked to be so ambushed before the day had even started by something that tasted...like...
A feverish trawl of the Triple J forums with the only lyric the song had gave me treasure. The responsible party is kyü, a Sydney-based band, and the song itself, Pixiphony, is available for free download at Triple J Unearthed.
If it isn't rare enough to find a song that affects me so, I discovered another unexpected present; they're opening for Junip in January, a gig for which I already have a ticket.
Such fortune worries me. Bad things are going to happen in balance.
Suffice to say, I did not get back to sleep this morning.
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
Monday, December 06, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Intermission
Not bad considering zoom was full, the sun wasn't out and the grass was swaying in the wind.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
the end will not be narrated
Curiosity has enormous round eyes and towering pointy ears which perk with interest at all going on in the world. Curiosity is never sated, never stops finding something new to take delight in.
Delight is a fat beam of sunlight curling a a living mobius like an ADHD eel.
Desire has short arms and short fingers. Desire reaches for things just beyond its grasp, but it can see them, it knows with only a little work it can change the position of the world and have what it wants. Desire is never sated, never lets its arms drop, never stops yearning.
Fury is fists and a mouth that never closes and so the roar never ends. Fury is constantly battered and beaten by that which gives rise to it, and as it defeats that which has woken it so it slays itself. Fury doesn't want to die. Fury can't help itself.
I can anthropomorphise character traits till you get bored and stop reading. Hope is a tortoise and fear is an elephant. Resolution is the bug on the windshield that no amount of speed will blow away.
None of these entities want to die. They don't fight back. Most of them don't know they're dying at all. But when I hold them under they don't stay down. I can't keep them down.
What I fear is depression. It's a perfectly rational fear to have all things considered, but I let it affect me in an irrational way. I've cut people out of my life not because they were going to do anything that would send me back there, but because I couldn't trust myself not to use them to send myself there. There are whole countries of conversation I won't visit because they call on memories that may sit next to other memories I don't want to visit. I fear depression and so by proxy I fear all things that may lead to it.
It is only logical that I then cleave to those things which combat it. "Being awesome" is about as WMD as you can get without prescription medication. In this case, the awesomeness is entirely internal. The space my mind occupies is immense and ridiculous and so much bigger than me; I have made it that way. I have made it so that even when my head is full of poison and horror it is still breath-taking and glorious. Everything I consume as thought-food, all the experiences and trials I put myself through, the rewards and punishments I vest upon myself, all of them become architecture, amazingly intricately stupidly illogically whimsically viciously laying out new ground. Be glorious. This is all I need to keep myself alive.
The character traits are my hunters, catching pieces of the world and laying new foundations.
I fear the damage I do to myself by continuing to push on. I fear the damage I do to myself when I strangle my voice.
They're different paths to the same destination. I do not like what I am becoming.
It doesn't matter how I anthropomorphise these character traits, how much distance I put between myself and the violence I wreak upon them. I can build walls of detail, personality and symbolism into their being. It doesn't matter. It makes no difference. In the end there is only me, murderer and victim and crying for both.
Delight is a fat beam of sunlight curling a a living mobius like an ADHD eel.
Desire has short arms and short fingers. Desire reaches for things just beyond its grasp, but it can see them, it knows with only a little work it can change the position of the world and have what it wants. Desire is never sated, never lets its arms drop, never stops yearning.
Fury is fists and a mouth that never closes and so the roar never ends. Fury is constantly battered and beaten by that which gives rise to it, and as it defeats that which has woken it so it slays itself. Fury doesn't want to die. Fury can't help itself.
I can anthropomorphise character traits till you get bored and stop reading. Hope is a tortoise and fear is an elephant. Resolution is the bug on the windshield that no amount of speed will blow away.
None of these entities want to die. They don't fight back. Most of them don't know they're dying at all. But when I hold them under they don't stay down. I can't keep them down.
What I fear is depression. It's a perfectly rational fear to have all things considered, but I let it affect me in an irrational way. I've cut people out of my life not because they were going to do anything that would send me back there, but because I couldn't trust myself not to use them to send myself there. There are whole countries of conversation I won't visit because they call on memories that may sit next to other memories I don't want to visit. I fear depression and so by proxy I fear all things that may lead to it.
It is only logical that I then cleave to those things which combat it. "Being awesome" is about as WMD as you can get without prescription medication. In this case, the awesomeness is entirely internal. The space my mind occupies is immense and ridiculous and so much bigger than me; I have made it that way. I have made it so that even when my head is full of poison and horror it is still breath-taking and glorious. Everything I consume as thought-food, all the experiences and trials I put myself through, the rewards and punishments I vest upon myself, all of them become architecture, amazingly intricately stupidly illogically whimsically viciously laying out new ground. Be glorious. This is all I need to keep myself alive.
The character traits are my hunters, catching pieces of the world and laying new foundations.
I fear the damage I do to myself by continuing to push on. I fear the damage I do to myself when I strangle my voice.
They're different paths to the same destination. I do not like what I am becoming.
It doesn't matter how I anthropomorphise these character traits, how much distance I put between myself and the violence I wreak upon them. I can build walls of detail, personality and symbolism into their being. It doesn't matter. It makes no difference. In the end there is only me, murderer and victim and crying for both.
Written at 19:54 on 16 August 2010
The Spectacular Failure
It's been over a year since the RSI took hold of my hands.
I will not be defeated, even while I am being defeated, even though I am now defeated. I will not give up. I will not let go. I may have lost, but I will not let there be any winners.
I cannot write. It hurts. I cannot write. It hurts. I cannot write.
I can produce nothing with regularity. Lack of practice makes my voice clumsy and awkward, and my awareness of this adds a self-consciousness that does it no favours. This day and age does not treat the slow writer gently. I did not have the output to make a name for myself when I could take my hands for granted; I have not even half that output now. I cannot reply to my emails with any depth. I cannot blog for fear of squandering my time. I cannot write. It hurts.
Fuck it.
Every time I sit to write and am thwarted by hurt. Fuck it. Every time I find myself not even opening Word. Fuck it. Every time I don't even turn the computer on. Fuck it. Every time I think about picking up a pen and do not. Fuck it. Every time I turn a story over and over in my mind and do nothing about it. Fuck it. Every time I do not act because I'm afraid of the pain and afraid of the damage that comes from being thwarted over and over and over and over and over again.
Fuck.
It.
If these are my rocks then I'll fucking well dash myself to pieces on them. I won't go quietly into the night. I'll take the fucking night down with me.
In the end, I won't be worth knowing. I'll be the bitter scraps of some dream I poisoned deliberately and furiously. I'll hate everyone who knew me as anything else. I'll know exactly what I am, and hate myself for that too.
I will not be defeated, even while I am being defeated, even though I am now defeated. I will not give up. I will not let go. I may have lost, but I will not let there be any winners.
I cannot write. It hurts. I cannot write. It hurts. I cannot write.
I can produce nothing with regularity. Lack of practice makes my voice clumsy and awkward, and my awareness of this adds a self-consciousness that does it no favours. This day and age does not treat the slow writer gently. I did not have the output to make a name for myself when I could take my hands for granted; I have not even half that output now. I cannot reply to my emails with any depth. I cannot blog for fear of squandering my time. I cannot write. It hurts.
Fuck it.
Every time I sit to write and am thwarted by hurt. Fuck it. Every time I find myself not even opening Word. Fuck it. Every time I don't even turn the computer on. Fuck it. Every time I think about picking up a pen and do not. Fuck it. Every time I turn a story over and over in my mind and do nothing about it. Fuck it. Every time I do not act because I'm afraid of the pain and afraid of the damage that comes from being thwarted over and over and over and over and over again.
Fuck.
It.
If these are my rocks then I'll fucking well dash myself to pieces on them. I won't go quietly into the night. I'll take the fucking night down with me.
In the end, I won't be worth knowing. I'll be the bitter scraps of some dream I poisoned deliberately and furiously. I'll hate everyone who knew me as anything else. I'll know exactly what I am, and hate myself for that too.
Written at 19:39 on 16 August 2010
The Quiet Lie
It has been over a year since the RSI took hold of my hands.
There have been moments of progress, which in and of themselves were marvellous things, like remembering to breathe, like warm water on cool skin, like seeing the way out.
These peaks were inevitably followed by their equal in troughs, which were made all the more devastating by those brief tastes of hope, like being snatched by the undertow, like a cold wind across cold water, like walls, walls, walls.
What dies when the pain returns is not simply my ability to exist comfortably in my body, but in my mind. I cannot write. It hurts. I cannot write. It hurts. There are walls, walls, walls.
And I, I do not like to fail. I do not like to be defeated. The only person who will judge me is myself, and that alone is too much. That I witness myself turn a piece of writing over in my mind until I must write it. That I watch myself sit, and begin, and stop because my muscles are burning and nothing has been accomplished. I find myself wanting. I am one witness too many for my regular retreats.
Each time I do this, the walls creep a little closer.
Now they are close enough I cannot write.
I will not write.
It is not enough to cease the action. The desire remains, and to keep this division between will and world from destroying me in a different yet still thorough manner I must stifle that too. I must silence my voice.
It is not enough to cease expression. That inner narration remains, and to keep the pent up thoughts from destroying me in a different yet still thorough manner I must sow enough salt that nothing grows, and I have nothing to say.
Do not be an entity that nurses curiosity. Do not ask questions, do not explore your ignorance, do not seek answers. Do not desire. Do not analyse. Do not absorb. Build nothing within yourself. Draw your horizons in close. Fight no battles. Marvel at no mysteries. Be affected by no change in the world around you. Do not affect change in the world around you.
I am vast. The psychological space I occupy sprawls out across the carpet, slips beneath the door and raises itself to the satellites. It is not that I am removing the architecture within this space. I will not be empty by the time this is done.
I am undoing that space entirely. Eventually, I will exist only behind my eyes and between my ears. I will be small, and full of what small pieces are left of me. I will concern myself with grout on the bathroom tiles and the specials on tea and butter on at the local supermarket.
I will not be worth knowing, and by the time this happens, I will not be the sort of person to whom this would even occur.
There have been moments of progress, which in and of themselves were marvellous things, like remembering to breathe, like warm water on cool skin, like seeing the way out.
These peaks were inevitably followed by their equal in troughs, which were made all the more devastating by those brief tastes of hope, like being snatched by the undertow, like a cold wind across cold water, like walls, walls, walls.
What dies when the pain returns is not simply my ability to exist comfortably in my body, but in my mind. I cannot write. It hurts. I cannot write. It hurts. There are walls, walls, walls.
And I, I do not like to fail. I do not like to be defeated. The only person who will judge me is myself, and that alone is too much. That I witness myself turn a piece of writing over in my mind until I must write it. That I watch myself sit, and begin, and stop because my muscles are burning and nothing has been accomplished. I find myself wanting. I am one witness too many for my regular retreats.
Each time I do this, the walls creep a little closer.
Now they are close enough I cannot write.
I will not write.
It is not enough to cease the action. The desire remains, and to keep this division between will and world from destroying me in a different yet still thorough manner I must stifle that too. I must silence my voice.
It is not enough to cease expression. That inner narration remains, and to keep the pent up thoughts from destroying me in a different yet still thorough manner I must sow enough salt that nothing grows, and I have nothing to say.
Do not be an entity that nurses curiosity. Do not ask questions, do not explore your ignorance, do not seek answers. Do not desire. Do not analyse. Do not absorb. Build nothing within yourself. Draw your horizons in close. Fight no battles. Marvel at no mysteries. Be affected by no change in the world around you. Do not affect change in the world around you.
I am vast. The psychological space I occupy sprawls out across the carpet, slips beneath the door and raises itself to the satellites. It is not that I am removing the architecture within this space. I will not be empty by the time this is done.
I am undoing that space entirely. Eventually, I will exist only behind my eyes and between my ears. I will be small, and full of what small pieces are left of me. I will concern myself with grout on the bathroom tiles and the specials on tea and butter on at the local supermarket.
I will not be worth knowing, and by the time this happens, I will not be the sort of person to whom this would even occur.
Written 19:07 16 August 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Monday, November 01, 2010
The Dead Mutton Birds of Gibson Steps (and the one that isn't dead yet)
Each austral winter, the Shearwaters (Mutton Birds) migrate to the seas off the Aleutian Islands and Kamchatka. In the austral spring, they travel down the coast of California before crossing the Pacific back to Australia.
because the sun cannot last
Remember how to drive. Pull out into weekend traffic. Pull out onto the Ring Road. Pull out into rain, and rain, and rain, and rain, and rain. Cannot see the road. Cannot see the side mirrors. Rain, and rain, and rain, and the spray of cars on water. Watch the traffic ahead lift off. Cannot see the hill they climb. Turn the music up louder. Louder. Cannot pull away from Nine Inch Nails long enough to start driving playlist. Rain, and rain, and rain. Hairy moment. Rain. Louder. Hairy moment. Rain. Repeat. Pass Geelong. Follow the Princes Highway to Colac. Still cannot pull away from Nine Inch Nails. Pause at Information Centre to confirm road still open. Still cannot pull away from Nine Inch Nails. Leave the Princes. Chase the 155 down through the Otways. Rain, and wind, and rain, and wind. Too fast on the corners. Water bottle rolls off the seat, side to side in the foot well. Clouds, and wind, and clouds, and wind. Cannot see the drop offs to either side. Cannot see the ranges and valleys. Cannot see the corners as they come. Louder, louder, louder. Free of the old trees and old ferns. Down the hills to the coast. The sea enraged. The coast eats ships. The wind and wind and wind pushes the car. Repeat that song. Take these corners too fast. The cliff tops charcoal from back burning. Ash in the air, smoke on the tongue. No sun seen today. Port Campbell. Five minutes too early for reception. Overpriced cup of tea around the corner. Watch skinny boys come out of the surf. Flash of fish-white buttocks out of the wetsuit. The kitchen hands come out to watch the derby. Milk and butter and a bottle of cider at the supermarket. Hostel is new. Hostel is clean. Hostel is warm, bright, not at all the setting of a slasher movie as the other backpacker joint. Sharing dorm with a chopper pilot. She defies gravity every day. This borrowed car is heady freedom enough. Back out with the last of the light. No music. Loch Ard Gorge. Herbie the Camera out. The wake of fire. Girls stopping their parents to emulate me in the ashes. Down to the gorge. Herbie freaks out in low light. There is no colour. The wind pushes me over. Hands too cold to be steady. Ears ache. Face numb. Retreat. Sit on bunk bed. Choose to read. Choose between two books. Cup of tea. Comfy couch. Warm room. Read. Old comfort. Old delight. Pause. Heat soup. Butter bread. Warm full belly. Cider. Book. Surrounded by tour group. Make my own quiet. Content. Bed. Listen to the wind, the rain, the sea and sky. Wake. Listen to the wind, the rain, the sea and sky. Wait. Doze. Wake. Listen. Wait. Doze. Wake. Listen. Wait. Doze. Listen. Wake. Shower. Downstairs. Warm porridge. Cup of tea. Book. Couch. Read. Listen. Rain at forty-five degree angle. Read. Hostel empty. Read. Warm. Quiet. Read. Warm. Quiet. Read. Rain. Wind. Rain. Wind. Warm. Quiet. Read. Rain stops. Car. Too fast on the corners. Clear air. Loch Ard again. Walk to Sherbrooke River. Photos and photos and photos. Ears ache in the cold. Hands clumsy. Nose running. Lichen. Flowers. Leaves. Grass. Succulents. Distance. Wind. Wind. Wind. Prickles. Water. Tussocks. Trees. Decay. The river is fat. The inlet an apoplexy. A froth of sour milk. Pale air. Waves immense. Vengeance. Foot stuck in clay. Distracted by ant carrying birdshit. Slip on wet rocks. Cannot feel face. Watch the violence. Wait. No silence. Alone. Need toilet. Walk back. Vow no more photos. Break vow. Break vow. Break vow. Break vow. Break vow. Break vow. Stop at Broken Head. Waves dash so high. The wind carries the spray up over the cliff top. A bird taunts me. Break vow. Break vow. Break vow. Cannot feel fingers. Car. Stop at 12 Apostles. Toilet. Ponder hot drink. Too tired to wait in line. Sit in car. Sandwich of leftovers pilfered from last night's tour group. Apple. Popper. Watch tourists in carpark. Drive. Gibson's Steps. Wind roars at me. Shoves me. Deafens me. Takes my face. Creep down steps. Dead mutton bird at bottom of cliff. Take photos. Given funny looks. Turn around. Snap shots of sea. See shore covered in dead mutton birds. Many photos of dead mutton birds. Sea foam lifted and spun in circles. Like plastic bags in a parking lot. Photos of dead birds. Bottle without message. Photos of dead birds. Dead birds. Dead birds. So many dead birds. Turn and walk away. Live bird next to stairs. Leave live bird alone. Blow back up cliff. Sit in car. Wait for shakes to stop. Drive. Stop. Photos of the wake of fire. Cold. So cold. Drive. Past Port Campbell. First Scenic Lookout on left. Trail head for Discovery Trail. Bugs. Flowers. Stamen to end all stamen. Cliff tops. Wind. Alone. Howl. Unheard. Scream. Lost. Sky swallowed. Spent. Turn around. Go back, down, down, down. Buy milk, hot chocolate, some chocolate-vodka alcopop thing. Shower. Core warm. Cup of tea. Book. Couch. Blanket. Read. Chuckle. Read. Finish tea. Make soup. Butter bread. Read. Read. Warm belly. Make hot chocolate. Spike hot chocolate. Book. Couch. Warm belly. Warm blood. Finish book. Lose quiet space. Bed. Rest. And. Sleep. Wake. Rain. Doze. Wake. No rain. Dress. Pack. Check out. Porridge and banana. Cup of tea. Car. Petrol. Drive. Great Ocean Road. Too fast on the bends. Through Lavers Hill. Through the Otways. Through Apollo Bay. C119 at Skenes Creek. Stuck behind slow driver. Pollute the air with obscenities. Past. Play chicken with the laws of physics on the slopes and bends. Grass parrots play chicken with me. Turn the music up. Turn the music up. Between leaving and arriving. Moving. In control. Free. Equilibrium. Stability. Strength. Breathe. Some semblance of exhilaration. Any excuse to accelerate. Overtake. Overtake. Overtake. Turn the music up. The earth regained. Some semblance of determination. Some semblance of hope. Until the sun comes out. Until the Princes Highway. Until a glimpse of the city. Until the traffic crowds in. Until traffic lights and stop signs and roundabouts and cut offs and car horns and road works and the roar of a different world. Until returned to this life. Until this.
The sky was furious. The sea was furious. The cliffs and the bruised beaten life upon them an implacable wrath. The battery never ended. The howling and roaring beyond sound. The world conspired to be my state of being, and being in that turbulence took the turbulence out of me. Spent. For a moment, I could see a future. For a moment, even the present was okay.
Not enough. Not enough to bolster me. Moments are, by definition, only moments. There are days and weeks and months of this life to come. Sitting here at my desk, there is no wind and rain, only people, I hear people. Perhaps if I'd had longer I could return properly replenished.
But. Why. Why should this wisp of wholeness I find on the edge of the continent be used on you. This cycle always ends with my retreat. Incoherent and disintegrating. Retreating, fleeing and flying from you. Finding some quiet eye in the storm to stand in. To remember how to breathe. To- to come back and have you wear me down again. Flay me raw with kind words, harsh words, no words at all. Until I retreat. Again. And again. And again. Why must I spend the quiet I fight for on wading into your world again.
Why is the price always mine.
The sky was furious. The sea was furious. The cliffs and the bruised beaten life upon them an implacable wrath. The battery never ended. The howling and roaring beyond sound. The world conspired to be my state of being, and being in that turbulence took the turbulence out of me. Spent. For a moment, I could see a future. For a moment, even the present was okay.
Not enough. Not enough to bolster me. Moments are, by definition, only moments. There are days and weeks and months of this life to come. Sitting here at my desk, there is no wind and rain, only people, I hear people. Perhaps if I'd had longer I could return properly replenished.
But. Why. Why should this wisp of wholeness I find on the edge of the continent be used on you. This cycle always ends with my retreat. Incoherent and disintegrating. Retreating, fleeing and flying from you. Finding some quiet eye in the storm to stand in. To remember how to breathe. To- to come back and have you wear me down again. Flay me raw with kind words, harsh words, no words at all. Until I retreat. Again. And again. And again. Why must I spend the quiet I fight for on wading into your world again.
Why is the price always mine.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Today is Not My Birthday
Being as it's broad daylight and office hours, recreating the Flaming Lamington Fortress of 2007 that started this whole Not Birthday affair would not appear to be a pragmatic move.
Sticking a soldier upside down in a banana-choc-chip muffin is, I believe, an appropriate alternative. Creatures of war, as said the King of Mars.
Being a largely international flock of readers, providing you with cake would be logistically unfeasible, so instead I give you this short film. It says with calm and quiet a great many things about which I am not calm and not quiet. It resonates strong enough to be entirely intangible.
Peace of mind is for peaceful minds, as said the King of Mars.
Thirteen years. Last year I forgot this date. It's some small, sad, insignificant failure that I didn't manage to do so this year. Some things you don't get to move on from. They define you, and you carry them around for the rest of your life, like a forgotten stick of chewing gum lost in the bottom of your bag, old and well past its use by date, and sticking with you forever.
I often consider what I'd say to the ghost of this sixteen year old Tessa that won't let me go (or that I will not let go). Were I to sit on the ground next to her on that station platform on this day all those years ago, knowing what the next few hours hold, and then, knowing what the next thirteen years will bring, knowing all this, there must be something to justify us.
Hey. It's okay. We came true.
And she'd look at me, that dead fish in a dead pan lack of reaction face I haven't been able to discard. She wouldn't even given me a mouth twitch.
Because she is me and I am her, and we both know there's no comfort in that at all.
Sticking a soldier upside down in a banana-choc-chip muffin is, I believe, an appropriate alternative. Creatures of war, as said the King of Mars.
Being a largely international flock of readers, providing you with cake would be logistically unfeasible, so instead I give you this short film. It says with calm and quiet a great many things about which I am not calm and not quiet. It resonates strong enough to be entirely intangible.
Peace of mind is for peaceful minds, as said the King of Mars.
Thirteen years. Last year I forgot this date. It's some small, sad, insignificant failure that I didn't manage to do so this year. Some things you don't get to move on from. They define you, and you carry them around for the rest of your life, like a forgotten stick of chewing gum lost in the bottom of your bag, old and well past its use by date, and sticking with you forever.
I often consider what I'd say to the ghost of this sixteen year old Tessa that won't let me go (or that I will not let go). Were I to sit on the ground next to her on that station platform on this day all those years ago, knowing what the next few hours hold, and then, knowing what the next thirteen years will bring, knowing all this, there must be something to justify us.
Hey. It's okay. We came true.
And she'd look at me, that dead fish in a dead pan lack of reaction face I haven't been able to discard. She wouldn't even given me a mouth twitch.
Because she is me and I am her, and we both know there's no comfort in that at all.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Five Months, Four Books, Two Octopodes
In my defence, I have critiqued a couple of novels and watched The Naked Lunch I don't know how many times.
Return to Tibet - Heinrich Harrer, translated by Ewald Osers
Having read Seven Years in Tibet just prior to traveling there, it seemed only fitting that the first book I pick up on my return be the sequel, of a sort. I bought it in a book store lining the kora of the boudhanath in Little Tibet in Kathmandu.
In this book Harrer writes of what he found when he finally returned to Tibet, some thirty years after he fled the country ahead of the invasion by Red China. I was a little apprehensive, to be honest. The nature of his departure, the knowledge of what had come to pass in those years, the treacherous ground nostalgia presents; it all seemed the perfect equation for a bitter book.
The Tibet he visited was much similar to the one I visited. The talk of what had gone on was horrific and devastating and so very quiet. The manner in which he was minded day and night differs somewhat, as I was allowed to roam around as I pleased, but then, I was only a tourist.
What surprised me was the hope he displayed that things would improve. He wrote of improving relations with China, that the administration was perhaps coming to terms with the fact that their handling of Tibet was simply not working, not for the Tibetans or for them, and that what had passed with the Four wasn't a legacy they necessarily wished to continue, and that maybe the Dalai Lama would be allowed to return, may Tibetans would be allowed to be Tibetans without fear, maybe, maybe...
His voice is laced with hurt at all that had come to pass, all the damage that would never be able to be undone, yet the hope is equal to that hurt. He truly believed things would change for the better.
The Tibet he envisioned in his hope is not the Tibet I visited.
Diary of a Journey Across Tibet - Captain Hamilton Bower, 17th Bengal Cavalry
Purchased in Kathmandu after a blissfully quiet hour spent examining every book in a bookstore.
This is what it says it is, the expedition log of a trip across Tibet.
It is a little bit hilarious. By a little bit, I mean a lot. Bower is not a...he's...well. He's a fine colonial spirit, out to bring civility to the savages and barbarians of the world. Usually by yelling and bullying them into giving him food, ponies and guides. He is entirely at the mercy of the Tibetans he encounters, yet in this diary never once notes that his survival is entirely dependent upon their generosity, and wades into every encounter with a sense of entitlement that is equally impressive and appalling. He even made that classic near clichéd mistake of disputing river names, because his companions had said that river was called tsang-po, but then have also said this river is called tsang-po, and clearly they are not the same river! (Tsang-po being, of course, the Tibetan word for river.) The time his party spent crossing the Changtang was grueling for both expedition and reader - they did not see another soul, nor sign of another person, for some months. They were living hand to mouth, every day spent scrounging for water and anything to eat. There's a reason not even the wildlife loiters up there.
Mostly, he and his party seemed to survive because...well, it would be decided unbritish of them not to.
Through Unknown Tibet - Captain Montagu Sinclair Wellby, 18th Hussars
I actually picked this one up before Bower, but in the opening pages wherein Wellby lists the inventory for the expedition he makes reference to Bower's experience in crossing Tibet, so switched around.
The routes taken by both expeditions are quite similar, as far as I can tell without maps. Tibetan and Chinese town names Romanised purely from phonetic are nigh useless to identifying the actual locations they passed through.
The two men could not be more different. While Bower was offensive in the judgments he passed willy-nilly on everything for the various people and customs he met to the quality of the kyang (wild ass) they shot and ate to the ponies they requisitioned, Wellby greeted the world around him with a non-judgmental curiosity and even-handed analysis. While he encountered the same severe conditions on the chang (why, given he knew of Bower's experiences, did he still choose this route? Insanity!) and trouble with his entourage, the approaches he used to dealing with adversity were less roaring bull and more diplomatic guile. He took genuine delight in the discoveries made. I was particularly amused by the presence of Ruby, a fox terrier who accompanied them.
Still, this was something of an endurance read, as the Changtang was just as depressingly soul-crushingly monotonous. The quick history lesson of troubles in and around Xining was interesting - and still relevant - but once they were out of danger of starvation and dehydration, and back in the arms of civilisation, the diary itself lost interest, and was simply a catalogue of miles between one town and the next.
Conclusion: Harrer was not prepared, Bower was not prepared and Wellby was not prepared. Even I with my organised tour was not prepared. No one is prepared for Tibet.
I love these books.
Black Country - Joel Lane
Short story as one-shot chapbook. Elegant little package for an elegantly restrained story. A sort of slow, gentle horror that caresses the insidious menace of nostalgia and true lost memories beneath the guise of a crime story. Very much enjoyed.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Traveling Illegally in Tibet; Reiteration
From Life on the Tibetan Plateau, Traveling Illegally in Tibet;
The above bridge marks the border between Nepal and China-Tibet. Our Tibetan drivers and guide, who had been piggy-backing us for weeks, dropped us at the foot of the bridge. We didn't have time for a long good bye, with so many cargo trucks and freight trucks backing up the narrow switchbacks behind us. Our guide stayed with us. He didn't have to. He had seen us to the border and that was where his job ended, but he stayed to make sure we got through okay, and because he's simply that kind of man. I won't name him.
Quarantine didn't exist except on paper, and immigration wasn't overly interested in us, but Customs pillaged every bag. They went through our rucksacks and daypacks. No interest was shown in any goods purchased, or any food we may have been carrying, they paid no attention to liquids or gels and completely ignored out toiletries.
They paid attention to books. They went through all papers, all novels, all travel journals. All pamphlets and maps carefully examined.
They're looking for pictures of the Dalai Lama, our guide told us, or any subversive messages.
I watched them labour through an Englishman's daypack. He had half a library in there.
What happens if they find any?
You get kicked out of the country, he said with a grin. Maybe get a fine.
And?
And I will lose my tour guide licence, he said, still with a grin. Maybe get arrested.
...a group of 6 foreigners had arranged a tour of just the Lhasa area. They booked everything through my friends company, which is owned and managed by a great Tibetan family who are from Lhasa. The group had a great time in Lhasa and had no problems. The second to last day of the groups tour, they produced train tickets proving that they were leaving on the date their permit ended. The next day, one of the agencies drivers took them to the train station and saw them off....or so they thought.
Two days later, my friend's agency gets a phone call from the police in Dram at the Nepal border. The police informed my friend that one of his groups had traveled illegally to the Nepal border...
The Tibet Tourism Bureau (TTB) called my friends office regarding this group that travelled illegally to the border. The TTB told my friends agency that he would be fined Y50,000 ($7350 USD) and faced a possible 3 month business license suspension, which would mean they would have to close their doors for 3 months and not arrange any tours.
The above bridge marks the border between Nepal and China-Tibet. Our Tibetan drivers and guide, who had been piggy-backing us for weeks, dropped us at the foot of the bridge. We didn't have time for a long good bye, with so many cargo trucks and freight trucks backing up the narrow switchbacks behind us. Our guide stayed with us. He didn't have to. He had seen us to the border and that was where his job ended, but he stayed to make sure we got through okay, and because he's simply that kind of man. I won't name him.
Quarantine didn't exist except on paper, and immigration wasn't overly interested in us, but Customs pillaged every bag. They went through our rucksacks and daypacks. No interest was shown in any goods purchased, or any food we may have been carrying, they paid no attention to liquids or gels and completely ignored out toiletries.
They paid attention to books. They went through all papers, all novels, all travel journals. All pamphlets and maps carefully examined.
They're looking for pictures of the Dalai Lama, our guide told us, or any subversive messages.
I watched them labour through an Englishman's daypack. He had half a library in there.
What happens if they find any?
You get kicked out of the country, he said with a grin. Maybe get a fine.
And?
And I will lose my tour guide licence, he said, still with a grin. Maybe get arrested.
Are you thinking about trying to travel in Tibet illegally? DON'T! Do you want to go to Everest, but you don't have enough money for a tour so you want to try and set off from Lhasa on your own? DON'T! All foreigners need a permit in their hand in order to board the flight or train to Lhasa. You won't be able to board without it. The permit can only be arranged by a travel agency. If you go to Lhasa legally, but then decide to venture out of Lhasa on your own illegally, you will almost certainly be caught. There are numerous checkpoints all across Tibet. It will be no problem for the police to track down which agency arranged your permit if you are caught in closed areas illegally. All they have to do is type your name in the database and it will show which agency arranged your permit to Lhasa. Your illegal action will probably only cost you a small fine of Y300 or Y500, but you potentially put an entire company at risk. You are not "fighting the system"...you are hurting the local Tibetans. My advice for those wanting to travel illegally, is to stay out of Tibet...you are not helping anyone.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Horse Leg/Goat Leg Yin-yang in the Carpark
I knew I shouldn't have put in writing that I was actually having a good time. The Will of the Cosmos reads my blog, and the Will of the Cosmos is a bit of an arsehole.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Home is a state of mind.
"I hear Interzone's really nice this time of year."-- William Lee, The Naked Lunch
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Friday, October 08, 2010
this bitter pill and apathy my shield
Monday
Enough said.
Tuesday
Insomnia. Still reeling from the previous days' episode. Fear of taking pill = not taking pill = day spent in pain. Headache. Phone call. Doctor's appointment booked a month prior now canceled due to doctor calling in sick.
Wednesday
Insomnia. Fear of taking pill = not taking pill = day spent in pain. Headache. Shittest job interview ever, for the job I'm doing now no less. Anxiety and despair. Single most painful physio experience of my life. Spilt whole cup of tea on my phone.
Thursday
Insomnia. Have bruises from previous day's physio. Take pill. Have a lesser episode on train in to work, but still an episode. Remain at work. Headache remains in head. Visit cobbler's to pick up boots put in to have the soles repaired, and discover cobbler has given my favourite pair of boots to some random other customer. Paid, and so pay my bills and rent and am left with less than a third of my pay.
Friday
Insomnia. Take pill. Have lesser episode. Remain at work. Headache remains in head. Rescheduled appointment with doctor = talking about RSI = dredging up a lot of things I expend a great deal of energy not thinking about. Cry in public. Wear sunglasses indoors. Cyclist hits me so hard I leave the ground. The impact from finding the ground again knocks my vision black. Too stunned to get his details. My right arm took the brunt of the collision, and I landed on my left elbow. They are starting to hurt.
Enough said.
Tuesday
Insomnia. Still reeling from the previous days' episode. Fear of taking pill = not taking pill = day spent in pain. Headache. Phone call. Doctor's appointment booked a month prior now canceled due to doctor calling in sick.
Wednesday
Insomnia. Fear of taking pill = not taking pill = day spent in pain. Headache. Shittest job interview ever, for the job I'm doing now no less. Anxiety and despair. Single most painful physio experience of my life. Spilt whole cup of tea on my phone.
Thursday
Insomnia. Have bruises from previous day's physio. Take pill. Have a lesser episode on train in to work, but still an episode. Remain at work. Headache remains in head. Visit cobbler's to pick up boots put in to have the soles repaired, and discover cobbler has given my favourite pair of boots to some random other customer. Paid, and so pay my bills and rent and am left with less than a third of my pay.
Friday
Insomnia. Take pill. Have lesser episode. Remain at work. Headache remains in head. Rescheduled appointment with doctor = talking about RSI = dredging up a lot of things I expend a great deal of energy not thinking about. Cry in public. Wear sunglasses indoors. Cyclist hits me so hard I leave the ground. The impact from finding the ground again knocks my vision black. Too stunned to get his details. My right arm took the brunt of the collision, and I landed on my left elbow. They are starting to hurt.
Sunday, October 03, 2010
This Is Not Patience
Useless I
Breakfast has never been a regular feature in my diet. Unless it's special, like eggs benedict or pancakes, it doesn't exist. Recently I've been forced to add it to my day. I dislike the weight it has added to my hips and belly. I don't need any more cushioning, but my stomach does.
Most mornings I take a painkiller before I've finished getting dressed.
Job Interview
He said: "So, what qualities do you bring to the position?"
I said: "That's a pretty broad question."
She said: "This is your opportunity to tell us how great you are."
I said: "Oh! I'm awwwwwesome!"
The above conversation based on a true story. "Based on" meaning "word for word".
Useless II
Some mornings it doesn't matter that I've eaten, or what I've eaten. Some mornings my body won't have a bar of it.
It usually hits on the train into the city; a slab of nausea; an intense cold sweat that leaves me dehydrated in seconds; and that heavy distance between me and my body; all the harbingers that indicate I am about to collapse and/or puke.
Speaking of Puke
So I suck at breakfast and I suck at dinner, but I take lunch very seriously. Usually because by that point I'm starving.
If it weren't for habitual thinking I would have used lunch to illustrate this post, but to be honest, it would have been equally tedious. I cook batches, freeze batches, and eat the same thing every day for weeks on end.
The last batch I cooked was soup that deviated from my normal vegie soup, so of course it was scrotum. I've been eating poo soup for months.
Last week I decided to experiment again and have a go at making dal makhani. Which would have worked fine if I had black lentils instead of black beans.
Oh well. Can't go too bad with all those spices.
All last week, except Friday when I had peanut butter toast.
Useless III
Like today.
Tempus Can Go Fug Itself
I feel I should comment on the changing light, the newly opened sky, and the longer warmth in the days. They say that people who live with marked seasons feel the passage of time deeper than those close to, say, the equator. Any other time I would have rolled all over this unwrapped season, welcomed that passage of time. Not now. I have had to draw myself in close to these passing seconds. I cannot support the weight of my future, or the burden of my history, I've had to recoil and instead of smearing myself across time I am a small concentration of awareness. Here. Now.
Useless IV
The trials of living a lone are never so emphasised as when you are incapacitated.
They Won't Be Silent
When the sun is out, they come out. And sit in the court yards and cafés. And talk. And laugh. And talk. And talk. And talk. And their talk comes in my windows, and even here I can't escape the world.
Useless V
I need a doctor's certificate. I can't burn through my sick leave so fast, or I'll be forced to start taking leave without pay, and I can't afford that.
The medical clinic doesn't bulk bill. The money left in my account is needed for a train ticket.
The Best of the Horrible
Best of ASIM vol 2: Horror available for download as a PDF, and featuring Bitter Elsie Mae, a story I wrote about a vengeful ship. It made Ellen Datlow's Honourable Mentions. Not bad, little story, not bad.
Useless VI
I take these pills and sometimes they work and I can do my job, and sometimes they don't and I lose sick leave and time, and who knows what they're doing to my kidneys, and they constipate me and make me put on weight, and ultimately, they make no difference.
I still can't write.
Useless VII
Useless VIII
I can't bear the future or my past, and I can't say the present is easy to carry either.
Useless IX
Useless X
Is it self-pity if you can't-
Useless XI
Useless XII
I'm just lying here with a bucket for company, picking out these words a letter at a time.
Breakfast has never been a regular feature in my diet. Unless it's special, like eggs benedict or pancakes, it doesn't exist. Recently I've been forced to add it to my day. I dislike the weight it has added to my hips and belly. I don't need any more cushioning, but my stomach does.
Most mornings I take a painkiller before I've finished getting dressed.
Job Interview
He said: "So, what qualities do you bring to the position?"
I said: "That's a pretty broad question."
She said: "This is your opportunity to tell us how great you are."
I said: "Oh! I'm awwwwwesome!"
The above conversation based on a true story. "Based on" meaning "word for word".
Useless II
Some mornings it doesn't matter that I've eaten, or what I've eaten. Some mornings my body won't have a bar of it.
It usually hits on the train into the city; a slab of nausea; an intense cold sweat that leaves me dehydrated in seconds; and that heavy distance between me and my body; all the harbingers that indicate I am about to collapse and/or puke.
Speaking of Puke
So I suck at breakfast and I suck at dinner, but I take lunch very seriously. Usually because by that point I'm starving.
If it weren't for habitual thinking I would have used lunch to illustrate this post, but to be honest, it would have been equally tedious. I cook batches, freeze batches, and eat the same thing every day for weeks on end.
The last batch I cooked was soup that deviated from my normal vegie soup, so of course it was scrotum. I've been eating poo soup for months.
Last week I decided to experiment again and have a go at making dal makhani. Which would have worked fine if I had black lentils instead of black beans.
Oh well. Can't go too bad with all those spices.
All last week, except Friday when I had peanut butter toast.
Useless III
Like today.
Tempus Can Go Fug Itself
I feel I should comment on the changing light, the newly opened sky, and the longer warmth in the days. They say that people who live with marked seasons feel the passage of time deeper than those close to, say, the equator. Any other time I would have rolled all over this unwrapped season, welcomed that passage of time. Not now. I have had to draw myself in close to these passing seconds. I cannot support the weight of my future, or the burden of my history, I've had to recoil and instead of smearing myself across time I am a small concentration of awareness. Here. Now.
Useless IV
The trials of living a lone are never so emphasised as when you are incapacitated.
They Won't Be Silent
When the sun is out, they come out. And sit in the court yards and cafés. And talk. And laugh. And talk. And talk. And talk. And their talk comes in my windows, and even here I can't escape the world.
Useless V
I need a doctor's certificate. I can't burn through my sick leave so fast, or I'll be forced to start taking leave without pay, and I can't afford that.
The medical clinic doesn't bulk bill. The money left in my account is needed for a train ticket.
The Best of the Horrible
Best of ASIM vol 2: Horror available for download as a PDF, and featuring Bitter Elsie Mae, a story I wrote about a vengeful ship. It made Ellen Datlow's Honourable Mentions. Not bad, little story, not bad.
Useless VI
I take these pills and sometimes they work and I can do my job, and sometimes they don't and I lose sick leave and time, and who knows what they're doing to my kidneys, and they constipate me and make me put on weight, and ultimately, they make no difference.
I still can't write.
Useless VII
Useless VIII
I can't bear the future or my past, and I can't say the present is easy to carry either.
Useless IX
Useless X
Is it self-pity if you can't-
Useless XI
Useless XII
I'm just lying here with a bucket for company, picking out these words a letter at a time.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
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