Muppetational!

There are far too many things to do and wonders to see in New York, more than is possible to consume in any length of time. Thus, I have resigned myself to the foregoing of much memory treasure, but I was not going to let slip the Jim Henson exhibition currently on display at the Museum of Moving Image.

It was brilliant. Amazing. And, in keeping with the strong and irreverent spirit of all Jim Henson's creations, it was hilarious. There was a delightful sense of play in all the ventures that Henson pursued, whether or not they ever saw the light of day.

I could not help comparing it to the Tim Burton exhibition, which I saw while it was showing at ACMI. While Burton did branch out into various media, I walked away with the impression that his aesthetic had gone through very little metamorphosis in his many years of work. It is an aesthetic that has become an incredibly strong brand , however without development it does not seem as though the artist has challenged himself.

Henson had also maintained a strong identity through his aesthetic, but this was coupled with a drive to innovate, and as such his work throughout his life has about it a consistent freshness that I did not see in Burton's collection.

Did you know that earlier incarnation of the Cookie Monster was “IBM Monster"?

No photography was allowed in the exhibition, and there were 3 portly security guards patrolling to make sure that all enforced. However, because I am a ninja I did manage to sneak some photos on my phone, and these I share with you.

The below is part of a concept that did not go ahead. When I read it I was aghast. Irreverent and playful his works may be, some of them are down right horrific.

Dr. Bredlow Freedly is the Muppet scientist who invented MEL (short for Malfuntioning Electronic Logician). Freedly attempts to demonstrate the newest use for this mechanical marvel -- first, the machine will inhale our polluted air. It will then condense the smog, fumes and filth into handy little cubes for shipment to the less industrialised countries of the world. (Zounds! We'll make a fortune!)

Behold! The Mahna Mahna!


In the light of recent events I found this quote to be topical, to say the least.

For reasons... Wait, no. I think I just figured it out. Bert always put me in mind of a banana and I think that is because he is wearing stripes, and is yellow, with a pointy head, just like a Banana in Pyjamas.

He always reminded me of cricket too. Because of the sweater.

Mum used to call me Oscar the Grouch. No idea why.

ROWLF. (That blue elephant thing that appeared in the rerelease in Jabba's palace ain't got nuffin on Rowlf.)

The frog himself; Kermit.

(This was the hardest photograph to get, unsurprisingly.)

On the same floor was a display of the history and evolution of the television. Some of them looked like works of fiction, as opposed to works from the past.

And then, tucked up very back in the corner, were a few little special effects props from various notable films.

And I flipped THE FUCK out when I realised I was standing in front of the Tyrell Corporation ziggurat. “My mother? Let me tell you about my mother-"

If ever there is an open house tour of the ziggurat, behind-the-scenes may possibly and unexpectedly look a little like this:

In another corner it was a setup which allowed you to create your own stop work animations. Unsurprisingly I made many. I think we spent about half an hour faffing around with these.









The Museum of the Moving Image is not large but holy schmoly well worth the time travel.

Later, I was taken on a passing whim into the FAO Schwarz shop, which is a massive and magnificent toy store. Very, very dangerous. You have been warned. Especially given what is located in the back of the sweets section.

The Muppets Whatnot Workshop?

Oh hell yes I did.

Did an awful lot of trying out eyes and hair, but eventually a decision was made and I signed for my very own muppet with a fluffy fancy pen.

Jaimesis sent me Disco Shark! (And other awesomeness, but this comic needed to exist.)

Seven Years in Tibet - Heinrich Harrer (translated by Richard Graves)

buy - author wiki

In comparison, this book was exactly what I wanted it to be.

(Well. Apart from the introduction by Peter Fleming, which was so full of British arrogance I nearly tore the pages out.)

Another treasure I discovered in City Basement books, this is from the sixth print run, only a year after its initial publication. It is 56 years old, and has that old book smell about it. There's a gorgeous map in the front detailing the long route Harrer and his companion Aufschnaiter took from the internment camp they escaped at Dehra Dun in India to Lhasa in Tibet, and years later, his flight from Lhasa back to India with the invasion of Red China. At regular intervals are selected photographs that Harrer took during his stay in Tibet, which have changed since last I looked at them. Rather, my eyes have changed.

I believe this story is fairly well-known; with the outbreak of the Second World War the mountain climbing party that Harrer and Aufschnaiter were part of was detained in India and imprisoned for what was supposed to be the duration of the war. They weren't really okay with that, escaped (after a number of unsuccessful attempts), and hemmed in by both Nepal and India, neither of which offered any real refuge, pushed on to Tibet, the most neutral country in the world, with long term goals of maybe finding employment in China and making it through to Japan.

That didn't happen.

After the various accounts I've read of navigating Tibet and my own experience, I have to wonder if anyone is ever prepared for Tibet.

It is a tale quite simply and wonderfully told. Harrer falls well and truly in love with Tibet and its people, and while he does not attempt to sell this to the reader, that love saturates every sentence and paragraph. He cannot help but colour the narrative with his affection for the place, and so the reader, this reader, cannot help but fall in love as well.

This is the Tibet that people want to visit. I can't describe it as anything other than that. It's the mythical, mystical, magical holy city that exists in the minds of wondering outsiders. It's a land packed full of miracles, everywhere a miracle, and a people who are as warm, kind and welcoming as we hope them to be. Harrer had a singular opportunity to study and immerse himself in the country from an outsider's point of view, and this book is but a glimmer of the insights he gained into the character of the nation during his time there.

It's enchanting, enthralling and fascinating. Like Tintin in Tibet it's enough to plant that desire to go and insert a root system so deep that desire will never be uprooted.

And then, Red China "liberates" Tibet, and it ends.

This book was what I wanted, and at the same time, what I needed. A reminder that the Tibet that exists in this book and that I yearn to explore no longer exists. Every day that passes with Tibet beneath Chinese occupation the chances of that Tibet ever resurrecting diminish.

By the time you, I, reached that point in the book, in history, I was well in love. Harrer's heart broke with the invasion and so did mine. The terrible things that happen in war were only hinted at; China is well advanced in military finesse. Tibet is a nation that truly embraces peace, all aspects of it. The resistance, the Tibetan army, such as it was...

It's impossible to write about a book that within my mind is not the shape of a book.

Verdict: When is a book not a book? When it is this book.

A Mountain in Tibet - Charles Allen

buy - author wiki

Lonely Planet Tibet contained a list of recommended reading, with this book as being for those specifically interested in Mt Kailash. Unfortunately, this books is out of print. Fortunately, I have special luck when it comes to travel-related literature and City Basement Books (which is where I stumbled across Journey to the World's End), as I located this pristine copy amid a stack of books on the carpet for a mere $6. Unfortunately again, City Basement Books is no more.

Upon starting this book I was a touch put off; it wasn't quite what I wanted. The focus was not upon Tibet, and although the various narratives related within the pages take place within Tibet's borders, the focus is not really within Tibet either.

The book concerns itself with the surveying of the Kailash region, specifically in regards to finding the sources of such rives as the Ganges and the Brahmaputra, as well as the Indus and Sutlej, and the majority of such surveying attempts stem from the British Raj in India.

After what felt like a very dry history lesson regarding Kailash's cultural, religious and geographical significance, the book goes on to detail each foray into the region which results in some of the white areas in the map of Tibet to be unveiled as each occurs in history. A lot of time is spent skirmishing around the foothills of the Himalayas at the mercy of the hill tribes. An equal amount of time is spent looking at the politics of the Raj and the wider world (Tibet played a significant role as a buffer between British India and Soviet Russia during the years of the Great Game) as well as the smaller politics and scraps between academics and scholars regarding who discovered what first and the validity of any claims made by any explorer returning from that most mysterious unknown land.

Once reconciled to the fact the book wasn't what I wanted it to be, I had an alright time with it. Although I'm certainly it wasn't intended to be a comedy, the absurdity surrounding some of the expeditions mounted by the Raj had me laughing out loud. I became particularly enamored of the Pundits, the surveyor-spies trained by the Survey of India. Cartography at its most badhorse.

The final chapters deal with one Sven Hedin, a Swedish explorer who was much maligned by the Royal Geographic Society and, in turn, not presented by Allen without bias.

Hedin became the highlight of the book. In both his failures and successes was a...I don't know that there is a single word that will serve the purpose. At once reckless and determined. His expeditions were frightening things which demonstrate either ignorance or deliberate heedlessness, his first expedition across the Taklamakan being a perfect example. He was presented as a conflicted man, doing great things but demanding recognition equal to his deeds, his own character sabotaging the good will of those who would provide such recognition (the fact that he was a Nazi supporter didn't help either) and thus poisoning his own view of his achievements.

He was a flawed man with a magnificent ego. Yeah. I empathise.

Despite, or perhaps because, being so unfavourably presented I fixated upon him of all the explorers, and went on to buy his own accounts of his travels. Possibly because of all the explorers, he went out of pure personal desire, not political.

It is interesting to see how history treats the people that come to shape it. Later, in my further reading regarding Tibet, the accounts in which he feature painted a very different picture of the man.

At any rate, I read this several months ago, and details have blurred. Although it wasn't what I wanted, it did give me a fantastic lesson in Tibetan geography which I used not only around Kailash but the whole country.

Verdict: Dry, not without academic bias, but yes, very good for those interested in the geography around Kailash.

Red Hot Elephant Socks

An unexpected parcel was waiting for me when I visited my parents. Unexpected parcels are always mildly alarming, as some part of me instantly assumes I'm going to be asked to pay for something I didn't order. Given this has never happened to me, this fear is entirely irrational.

It still hasn't happened to me. Instead, THERE WERE SOCKS. AND ARMWARMERS. Damn HAWT ones if I do say so myself, cue gratuitous camwhore shot;



I burst out laughing when I saw the socks, in lieu of who they're from. I had the exact same pair given to me seven years ago in New Orleans, on my first solo jaunt overseas which wasn't really solo at all given the purpose of trip was to meet some people who were and still are magnificent co-conspirators.

Thank ye, Jaimesis. <3

The armwarmers are especially appreciated. Hands are aching with the return to computers, and the cold isn't helping. The line "write every day" has been sitting at the front of my thoughts, and is almost instantly followed by "except when you're hurting", which has also been every day. As such I've been looking for some gloves that wouldn't interfere with typing too much, and these are perfect. Double mwah-mwah.

Because he matched the presents so well it had to be fate, that photo is also the introduction of a finger puppet I bought in Kathmandu. Readers, I would like you to meet Ganesh, short for Angry-Ganesh-Doesn't-Like-The-Spicy-Bone-Filled-Curry-Stomp-Crash-Raaar.



He wasn't named after a personal experience. No. Not at all. Ever.

You're Too Old For Toys, Woman. (It's a good thing they're action figures then.)

Happy little family of intergalactic soldiers, aren't they?

Herbie the HS10 shot this. I was sitting on the floor in the far corner of the lounge room. The blinds were down, and the only light one incandescent globe. Herbie was only resting on my knees. That is at full zoom.

The colours are crud, but that's partly the light. I'm surprised at the lack of shake, considering. The noise levels are acceptable. Not bad, considering.

He had far more trouble when I just turned the light out and we were pretty much sitting in the dark with light bleeding in only from a door way that didn't actually illuminate the happy little family.



Noise is bad enough to almost be artistic, and who knows what the colours are doing. Regardless, this is bloody impressive given that through the view finder I could only just make out the vague shape of the stormtrooper to lock onto, and didn't think it'd focus at all, let alone have such minimal shake.



Second shelf from the top, to the right. There's the happy family. That's without any zoom at all, just to give some perspective.

Don't look at the clothes horse.

I had a faff around shooting movies on Herbie too. Herbie isn't really designed to use macro in movie mode. This is an issue when you're experimenting with finger puppets in low lighting.

T-Shirt of Oarsum Timing!

SharkPuppet: Evening.
SirTessa: HIIIIIII!
SharkPuppet: You're..."perky"...tonight.
SirTessa: Yes! I am!
SharkPuppet: Come on. Just say it. I'm not going to ask, so just say it.
SirTessa: ...

ONE. DUCKING. HUNDRED. DUCKING. THOUSAND. WORDS.

BOOYAH MUTHADUCKA.

SharkPuppet: Nice screencap.
SirTessa: Innit just? A golden moment, pure fried gold with chips.
SharkPuppet: I hear you overshot by 23 words and had to do a quick count, ctrl-x and ctrl-z to get that screencap.
SirTessa: ...shuttup, SharkPuppet.
SharkPuppet: You can't even pretend to be affronted. Get your glee out of your system and stop fidgeting already. Dance, you stupid monkey.
SirTessa: :D



Section 1(a): Withheld from public consumption due to being complete and utter shit from a bull.

I never claimed any of those one hundred thousand words were any good.

Aerolineas Argentinas is the Suck, Spit and Swallow

Tuesday, 22nd December, 2009

Qantas flight to Sydney departs and arrives on schedule.

Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet proceed to the Aerolineas counter in order to pick up their boarding pass for the Sydney-Buenos Aires leg of the journey. While waiting to be noticed, they in turn notice a sign stating that the flight in question has been delayed by approximately two and a half hours.

They were prepared for the two and a half hour wait scheduled in their itinerary. They had changed all their cash for US$ and ARG peso and left just enough coinage for a cup of tea, having hit up the bakery very early in the morning for cheap nommy snacks to sustain them while they inhabited the gate lounge. They are not prepared for a five hour wait.

The Aerolineas staff give them a $15 food voucher. This does not go very far.

Sydney Airport is newly renovated and modern, which you can read to mean it contains all the mind-numbing qualities of both an airport terminal and a shopping mall, and combines them into a sublime ecstasy of hope-felling purgatory. Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet walk around, and around, and around, and inspect every single gate lounge (more than sixty), and inspect them again, and again, and stop at every single free internet kiosk to shoot off bland emails to unwilling victims on order to alleviate the boredom, the emails them selves being entirely contentless as they are that bored there is nothing to write about.



There is the concern that with the flight so delayed, they may miss their connecting flight in Buenos Aires to Santiago in Chile, where they are to join the tour. If the delay is only as long as proposed, they will probably still make it.

The delay is longer. Of course.

The plane, a 737, is a (and we use the technical term here) "piece of shit". The tray tables are broken. The arm rests are broken. The chairs cannot actually be put in the upright position for take off and landing. Staff are indifferent. Food is quite ordinary, and Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet are not fussy eaters. Coming in to Auckland, the plane makes a hideous sound which unnerves everyone, and Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet are not nervous flyers either.

It is just after nine at night. While waiting for the doors to open to begin the get-off-the-plane-get-on-the-plane-again-cha-cha-cha dance, an announcement was broadcast as paraphrased below:

"This flight has been canceled. After you have cleared Customs and Immigration please proceed to Check In Counter 38, where accommodation has been arranged for you. Repeat, this flight has been canceled. You will need to collect your luggage from the baggage hall."

Sans explanation. Sans apology. Sans any information regarding exactly how we were going to get to Buenos Aires.

Exhale. Our travelers indulge in a fair amount of pissiness, but refrain from actual stress. The flight to Santiago has been missed. They suspect that tomorrow's flights to Buenos Aires will be departing at approximately the same time, so while they have lost their opportunity to explore Santiago, they still stand a good chance of making the information meeting/trip welcome.

The majority of other people on the flight are not travelers, however. They're going to visit family for Christmas. South America does not do the big schbang on Christmas Day, but on Christmas Eve. Note the date. They were making the ground staff cry.

At Immigration Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet are given a suspicious look and questioned regarding their planned stay of a single night. "Drug mule," the officer is thinking. "Did you not just process all the other disgruntled passengers also staying one night because of the canceled flight?" Sir Tessa is thinking. "I'll slit your nostrils," Shark Puppet is thinking.

At which point, the Quarantine sniffer dog jumps all over them, being as they are carrying bakery rolls covered in pineapple and ham.

They are provided overnight accommodation at the Holiday Inn near the airport, dinner and breakfast included, with a courtesy bus to transport them their. They are told the bus is yellow. They are not able to get any sort of word on whether or not there is a flight tomorrow, at what time, or if they will be able to get on it. They are simply told, "You will be told."

There are no yellow buses. That is because the buses are navy blue.

When asked at what time they were alerted to come pick us up, the bus driver states that they were called at six o'clock. Interesting.

They reach the hotel around ten-thirty, and are pleasantly surprised to be given a private room. It's a good hotel, but not used often given the dust everywhere. The pillows are labeled "soft" and "firm". Dinner is sitting in the bain-maries, and has probably been doing so for the last five hours. Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet, having collected a handful of fellow solo travelers, risk adding food poisoning to their woes, and over this daring-do bond and swap tales because there's sweet fuck all else to do and their body clocks are screwed.

Twenty minutes of complimentary internet is provided. This is of marginally more use than the ten minutes of complimentary phone calls, at $4.50 a minute to contact Chile. The internet time is used to hunt out an email address for the joining hotel, and let them know of her delay so they may pass the information along to the tour leader. They hope.

Eventually, Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet retire to their quarters, where they write the first entry of the South America trip journal.



It does occur to them, over and over, that while they will probably get to Buenos Aires tomorrow, being right on Christmas they may not be able to get a connecting flight to Santiago. If that's the case, they'll miss the tour departure, and if that's the case, they'll have to find some other mode of transport to catch up with them down the road, and if that's the case, then they're going to be fumbling around behind an enormous language barrier.

Which, surprising, doesn't stress them, but they're not exactly looking forward to it.

They watch some documentary on psychics helping police with investigative work, and don't watch Halloween, and eventually leave it on BBC World News with the volume turned down, and completely fail to sleep anyway.

Wednesday, 23rd December 2009

There is a notice board in the dining area saying that there is a flight - huzzah! - and that is all. Rumours abound. One of the collect posse states they need to be out of the hotel by one, although that is probably more to do with hotel staff wanting to clean the rooms than anything else.

They sit and eat breakfast over a long period. Then they sit and drink tea over a long period. Then, purely because they're sick of the hotel, they grab their bags, check out, and wait for the shuttle bus. They were told the shuttle bus was free. They go to board it, and are asked for a ticket. They dash back into reception, are given a ticket - no charge - dash out and give the ticket to the driver. This is getting to be a pattern.

At Auckland Airport they are somewhat confused. There is no Aerolineas counter. Recalling that it was Air New Zealand staff that handled them the night previous, they corner some staff not looking busy enough and dump a general "WHAT IS GOING ON?" upon them. The Air New Zealand staff confirm that there is a flight. Yay! But they cannot check to see if our travelers will get a seat on it, as the Aerolineas system does not open until one thirty, so they will have to wait an hour and a half.

This whole ordeal has consisted of HURRY UP AND WAIT.

Apparently proper transport was organised, as when they return to the counter later they discover the whole flight has appeared. Hotel staff could have told them this, but didn't. They get in line, and wait.

When the counter opens, and the queue starts moving, there is a lack of screaming and crying. This is a good sign.

When Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet's turn comes, they're given a seat on the next flight to Buenos Aires. They're not sure when this flight leaves, or from what gate, but it will be soon. What about the connecting flight to Santiago? The staff won't have a bar of that, and tell them they'll have to sort that out in Buenos Aires. Most helpful.

Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet would be more likely to accept that were it not for the fact that boarding passes were issued for other passengers with connecting flights. Seemingly at random.



Passengers have been talking to each other. Reasons for the cancellation are as follows:

1. There was a mechanical problem. (Fine if that developed in flight.)
2. The mechanical problem was known in Sydney (!!!) and they didn't think the plane would last the flight to Buenos Aires. (EXCUSE ME WTF WHY FLY IT FROM SYDNEY TO AUCKLAND THEN?!?!)
3. They needed to wait for a part to be flown in from Buenos Aires.
   
4. They needed to use our plane to take people who had been stranded in Auckland the night before we arrived onward to Sydney. (Get your own damn plane!)

The majority were of the opinion that the flight was canceled purely because it was only one-third full.

Those with connecting flights to Santiago watched the departure board, in particular a LAN Chile flight direct to Santiago, and wept a little. The board was also watched to see if our flight would be given a gate at any point in time (it wasn't), and exactly when boarding would commence. The board displayed a helpful countdown on every flight listed for departure - boarding in 45 minutes, 40 minutes, 35 minutes - and Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet watched it make it all the way down to 5 minutes, where it remained unchanging for approximately half an hour before jumping back up to 50 minutes. It did this approximately three times.

At some point in the long dark tea time of the soul, Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet noticed an Aerolineas plane sitting out on the tarmac, with maintenance popping in and out of it.



"That's our plane," spoketh Sir Tessa, and Sir Tessa spoketh true.

At last a gate was given, and when the announcement came over the PA there was cheering. Cheering! The posse head to the gate lounge, where they waited a further hour, ANOTHER DAMN HOUR, before boarding. Where they sat on the runway for another twenty minutes or so. And when they roared up the runway and finally left the ground, there was a hell of a lot more cheering, in a sort of "we're in the air you're stuck with us now!" way.

Staff, just as indifferent, and nigh prickly. Food, just as ordinary. Sleeping pills, well, they can only do so much on a plane. Which turns out to be not much at all.

Buenos Aires, ACHIEVED. That is exactly what it felt like, a grand achievement touching down on, at the very least, the correct continent. The longest leg was done, not long to go now.

Commence mad rush on the transfer counter!

Where it was made very clear that they needed to get to Santiago today. The Aerolineas staff plopped them on the next flight without even raising an eyebrow, and told them to check in their bags at-

But we don't have our bags, we're not entering Argentina, so...

Arcane symbols jotted on a list and a paper and pencil luggage receipt is handed over. Paper and pencil. This does not bode well, and gives rise to images of getting to the right city only to be without rucksack. Not a good state to be in, given the tour is due to depart Santiago at six in the morning tomorrow.

But, nevermind! They have a boarding pass! They are so close to their objective! They race to the gate, and hurry up and wait.



Such a lovely sight (and further proof that even at their home base, Aerolineas can't get their act together).



They boarded - ON TIME. The plane was in much better condition than the one flying the Sydney route. Interesting. They took off - ON TIME. Ham and cheese sandwich and further indifference. They arrived in Santiago - ON TIME. Their luggage arrived - ON TIME.

And so, more after more than twenty-four hours delay, most of which was spent completely in the dark having been given no information on the situation or what steps were being taken to see them reach their destinations, Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet arrived in Santiago.

They had missed the introductory meeting, but were in the right city, and would depart with the tour on the morrow.

That is, if the tour were following the planned itinerary. Which it wasn't. But that particular tale is for another time.

Wednesday, 6th January 2010

The final deviation from the tour's itinerary came from below, not above. It was noted that Metallica were playing at Estadio River Plate in Buenos Aires the night before the truck was due to arrive in the city.

Hell yes?

HELL YES.

Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet plant themselves in an internet cafe in Ushuaia. After much wrangling with the Spanish dictionary, tickets to the concert are bought. This is followed by plane tickets to fly from Trelew to Buenos Aires the day of the concert.

The Aerolineas site (which shall not be linked to here) is old fashioned, to put it kindly. Booking the ticket online is straight forward, surprisingly. And lacking any point at which to enter credit card details, surprisingly.

A read through of the confirmation email confirms that Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet have indeed booked a seat upon that flight, and it is reserved just for them, but they will have to pay for it within twenty-four hours or it will expire.

Oh. Well. Okay.

Fortunately there is an Aerolineas Argentinas office in Ushuaia, and it is still open. They roll in, take a number, mutely hand over their reservation details along with a wad of cash, and their seats are paid for and confirmed.

Some of their fellow Metallica-goers are told that twenty-four hours prior to the flight they will need to reconfirm their tickets AGAIN. Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet are not told this.

Yet others who booked the flight do not notice the caveat about payment. When all have regrouped back at the hostel and they are informed of this, there is some concern. This is followed by confusion about the Aerolineas opening hours, which leads to them not going to the office until it is well and truly closed.

This leads to further concern, as on the morrow the tour is leaving lovely Ushuaia and its Aerolineas offices and heading out on long remote highways to camp on the side of the road.

One Metallica-goer calls the Aerolineas customer service line with the intent of paying by credit card over the phone. Their call is picked up and put on hold. When they come off hold, the operator tells them that the office closes at ten o'clock. It is three past ten. Five minutes were spent on hold. The operator answered purely to state that they would not be offering any assistance good bye.

Style.

Phone calls ares made the following morning, in the last big town the truck passes through, and the various orphan tickets are paid for.

Friday, 22nd January 2010

At Trelew Airport, one Metallica-goer has trouble checking in, as apparently his ticket has not been paid for. This is despite him paying at the same time, on the same call as everyone else. It takes much to-ing and fro-ing before he is allowed to pay cash.

The flight is half empty. It isn't as though there aren't enough spare seats.

Another Metallica-goer misplaces her wallet at the check in counter. It is later discovered handed in, sans cash.

Ham and cheese sandwich. The stewards do not wish to work any longer than they must, nor do they want work hanging over their heads, so as soon as they are done handing out the meals, they come around to pick up the trays, taking most meals before they are finished, whether the person wants to give up the meal or not. This is followed by a bit over an hour of flight time.

Tuesday, 26th January 2010

Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet bid adieu to their new friends and the city of Buenos Aires, and head off to the Buenos Aires Airport. Again. They arrive at ten-thirty at night, just over three hours of check in time, which is suitable for an international flight.

They check the departure board to see what check in counter they need to head to, and discover that their two am flight has been delayed till quarter past four in the morning...

Rinse.

Repeat.

Buenos Aires airport is considerably less interesting that Sydney, and considerably less clean, and has even less going for it in the small hours of the morning. Sir Tessa attempts to contain her mildly unhinged giggling. Shark Puppet curses all the friends they just left in Buenos Aires, knowing they are at a live drumming show and heading onto a bar afterward.

Only a few of the chairs lack arms, and so sleeping space is at a premium. Weeks of camping comes in handy and Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet make do on the concrete floor, where they completely fail to sleep.

The Aerolineas staff appear and form a processing line, where they call up row numbers, check passports and proceed to check everyone's hand luggage. Again. As if that hadn't already been done. This takes a very long time, and it is closer to six than four by the time the plane leaves the ground.

The staff and food are as expected. They are, thankfully, not held hostage in Auckland a second time, but apparently others were, as there is once again great cheering when the plane departs Auckland for Sydney (after yet further delays).

Because their travel-fu is so corrupted by Aerolineas's interference, even the Qantas flight home to Melbourne is delayed.

Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet are not impressed.

It isn't as though Aerolineas is hiding what they are. Their emblem is the condor. What's a condor? A giant smelly scavenger. A carrion eater. Yep. In the official inflight magazine, there was a letter from the CEO of Aerolineas Argentinas, where he proudly states that in the last year they renewed their aviation safety clearance. That was all the airline achieved, and this letter toted that as if it were something to be proud of, a massive accomplishment. DUDE. YOU NEED THAT TO OPERATE AN AIRLINE. ANY AIRLINE.

This airline was chosen because it was the cheapest. Flying to South America is usually reasonable, but at the peak time, which combines Christmas and the summer holidays, prices rocket up to well above $4,600. The Aerolineas flight was around $3,400, which is still a lot of money but fit in my budget. Just.

If you, like me, must fly Aerolineas because that is all you can afford, then take an extra day or two to get to your destination. I believe you have a 50% chance of being stuck in Auckland, as while there is only one flight number, there are two planes, one running between Sydney and Auckland, and the other running Auckland to Buenos Aires, and they don't always meet up in the middle.

If you expect any degree of customer service, drop those expectations. Aerolineas isn't there to help you out, even when they mess you're in is their cause. They. Don't. Care.

If you are buying internal flights for Argentina, don't book online. Just go into an office, they're quite common.

If you can't eat a ham and cheese sandwich, bring your own food.

Hell, if you want to eat anything bring your own food, or they'll steal it back.

In fact, just don't fly Aerolineas Argentinas.

Rain - Conrad Williams

GIANT FLYING SHARK!
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Moar? Yes! Moar! I have to slow down with the Williams eating, as there's only a couple more books of his I know of. Found this one at Borderlands in SF. Delight! Joy!

I probably should restrict myself to one a year, actually. This is only a slim little novella, but still left me glad as all fuck the sun was out and I had absolutely nothing in common with the events, location, characters or environment in the story.

To rip off the blurb (it isn't a long blurb);

Ben and his family move to France.
There is an accident.
There is death.
There is rain.
Much rain.

I had a moment of "...again?" upon discovering this story was similar in vein to 'The Scalding Rooms' and 'One' in that the emphasis lay on the father-son relationship, and the shattering affect becoming a parent has, and how devastating the love for your child is, equal parts a strength and weakness. The wives/mothers/girlfriends are mostly distant, verging on the point of being the antagonists, either in the threat they pose to the father/son bond or in plainer and more overt terms. Should Williams ever write a story in which there is a healthy happy couple not on the verge of going each other with blunt objects...well, actually, I'd be pretty suspicious and assume I'd accidentally picked up some other Conrad Williams who did not write deliciously fucked up shit.

Particularly enjoyed the environment in this. The rain, the untamed garden and sullen estate they find themselves in, all these aspects speak with precision. Very little happens which doesn't hide the fact that an awful lot happens in a very short time.

Verdict: It's Conrad Williams, it's awesomely brutal.

Illuminations - Gillian Polack

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

One of the sections in 2666 covers a series of murders occurring in Santa Teresa. It does not attempt to lead the reader into solving the mystery or finding the defendants or figuring out why. It details the bodies of the murder victims when, where, and as they were found. They're all women. They're all raped and tortured. It doesn't take long for the gut-wrenching sexism and misogyny to wear you down, especially if you are a woman.

This divide between the sexes made me want to read something that was woman friendly. I looked at the pile of books I had read, and realised there were two (2) female authors in it. I looked at my shelves, and there were very few female authors sitting there.

How did it get to this? I buy the books that interest me, I read the ones I feel like reading at that moment...why are there so few woman?

Have I become a male reader?

This upset me. I felt I'd betrayed my gender. I wanted a book written by a woman, that was kind to me, the reader. I remembered Gillian saying that her book had been described as 'sitting down to coffee with old friends', and I picked it up and devoured it.

It is a gorgeous book! It switches between letters that Rose - an academic on a research trip in Europe - sends to her mother, and pieces of an manuscript that she has found and is translating, complete with footnotes. The manuscript tells the tale of Ailinn and Guenloie, two young women setting out on a hard journey in Arthurian Britain. Rose finds her personal life strangely mirrored in the manuscript, and between the three of them there are more than a few demons to be conquered.

And it is a wonderful book. Despite the fey evils stalking Ailinn and Guenloie and the all too ordinary evils plaguing Rose, the manuscript that adheres to an older set of narrative laws and expectations in which things do not work out fairly, despite the death and injustice and bitterness of it all, it is a healing book. A wonderful warm book full of love. A book that is, yes, like sitting down to tea (not coffee) with old friends.

It washed the misogyny highlighted in the violence of 2666 right out of my head. Of course women, especially Ailinn and Guenloie, are slighted as less important or capable than men, but this is a story about women who carry on despite that, or perhaps because of that. They do not need to bray their prowess. They simply are.

On top of all that, I also learned a lot about the practices of historians and Arthurian lore.

I do love this book. It's a quiet, quirky and unassuming little thing. It doesn't shout. It won't push you around. It doesn't need to. It will have its way with you gently and leave its mark on you deeply. You won't want to leave the pages when you're finished. I didn't.

Verdict: a gorgeous, lovely, wonderful, humourous, sad, comfortable, small, towering, warm story. Miss Apricot adores this book, she really does, and she has excellent taste. MOAR.

2666 - Roberto Bolaño

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

This book needs so much more than 10 minutes.

I couldn't write, I had nothing to do and a head to fill and I spent all my free time sitting here, at my desk, reading. I picked this up purely because now was a prime opportunity to read huge books without having to carry them around. Seriously, if I'd tried to read this holding it on a train, my hands would have been in even worse condition. It lay here on the desk, flat, and I turned the pages.

It's a leviathan. It needs so much more than 10 minutes. It deserves so much more. It's a book I want to dive deep into, rummage around in the guts and pull out all the invisible things that made themselves felt. It's an incredible book, a book that spans much more than the numbered pages it sits on. It sits deep in Europe, and deep in Mexico. It sits deep in academic aristocracy and deep in the poor of Santa Teresa. It's a love story, an angry story, a story of family, a story of monsters. A fairytale in the original sense of the word, a terrifying tale. It's a mosaic novel in which the pieces of the mosaic are so large they consume each other. It's five different stories. It's one story. It's about writers and books, critics and ideals, murders and lovers, lost and found, escapes and advances and what is not acknowledged and what is ignored. It's books in a book about the effect of books. It isn't.

I just don't know what to say because I can't say enough.

...had already begun a voyage, a voyage that would end not at the grave of a brave man but in a kind of resignation, what might be called a new experience, since this wasn't resignation in any ordinary sense of the word, or even patience or conformity, but rather a state of meekness, a refined and incomprehensible humility that made him cry for no reason and in which his own image, what Morini saw as Morini, gradually and helplessly dissolved, like a river that stops being a river or a tree that burns on the horizon, not knowing that it's burning.

I read this when I couldn't write.

And maybe I'll never be able to articulate what that means.

Verdict: Magnificent.

Breath - Tim Winton

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

Sharks. Bane of all surfers. Hehheheheh.

Every time Tim Winton wins another major Australian literary award, I frown a little bit. He's beginning to feel like the easy way out for judges to take, he's Australia's King of Capital L Literature, so whatever he writes must be worthy of award, even if there are scads of books out there which are better.

Which is an unfair reaction for me to have, given I have not read much Winton, nor have I gone on much of a crusade to discover and read any other contenders.

But seriously, he is not Australia's only writer, and this book is not all that.

It is coming of age story told as reminiscence by the man who has already come of age and is past mid-life. As such, all that occurs in his reminiscing is tinged with nostalgia that tempered with cliche, self-flagellation and no small amount of of blame - these people played this role in his formative years, therefore how he turned out as an adult is their fault. I kept waiting for the reminiscing to stop, to have some pay off with the grown adult that the book kicks off with. It didn't.

There are interesting themes that thread through the narrative. That of breathing, obviously, and how that links to death, and thus life, to be alive. That of fear, how it holds us back but not without reason. That of beauty, of doing something that has no practical or pragmatic purpose other than because it is beautiful.

But these themes aren't balanced. They're picked up and put down with no sense of rhythm, and bounce off each other in discord. The note the book ends on ties back to something that did not overshadow the bulk of the narrative, and felt out of place.

It was given to me. The price tag on the back is $24.95. It is a small book and the print is quite large, as are the margins.

Verdict: It is a decent read, with some interesting moments in there, but it is not worthy of the roaring around it.

In Patagonia - Bruce Chatwin

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

If Miss Apricot stretches her neck....she still fails to look like a guanaco on the pampas.

On the back here it says 'The book that redefined travel writing'.

Really? 'cause I just read a book by some Dane that was published 38 years before hand, and it worked better for me. Perhaps I'm just a simple minded fool who likes looking at pictures.

In a way, they both did the same thing: dug up the stories around them. Chatwin told the stories of the towns he passed through, the people who gave him lifts, and the estanicas he visited. And then, occasionally he didn't. Sometimes, he would merely describe the scene before him, and leave it to the reader to cast judgments, if there were any to be made. He go on great tangents, talking of references to the land made in literature, references generally stolen from other references. Or he would narrate some explorers voyage, some hundreds of years ago, and in great ambling loops bring that history back around to the person he was seeking, or the ground he stood upon.

Unlike Mielche, he was quite absent from the text. If he wanted to be there, it didn't show. If he didn't want to be there, it didn't show. Was this the redefinition spoken of? I haven't read much travel writing, so I don't know what the norm is, or was. It felt like I was looking over the shoulder of someone who didn't care, this absence.

I was quite taken by the brontosaurus skin, though. And the unicorn.

Written as it was much later that Mielche's, there are none of the native tribes left, and I felt this absence as well. All the people he talked to were ex-pats and immigrants from far, far away, dreaming of a home they couldn't run any further from. He paints Patagonia as a strange place of exile.

Apparently this is the book people take to Patagonia. I'd prefer Mielche's company.

Verdict: ignoring the pigeon-hole of travel writing, this is actually a very interesting book, and an excellent read.

Journey to the World's End - Hakon Mielche (translated by M.A. Michael)

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

I went scrummaging around the travel section of several second hand bookshops in the city looking for anything on Patagonia. This book was the only book I found. It has no dust jacket, and it was the phrase 'world's end' that caught my eye and flip the book open to discover that yes, it was specifically about Patagonia. Just look at those lining pages! Aren't they gorgeous?

I bought it for $4.

There's only one copy available second hand on Amazon for 48 pounds. Think I did well?

At first, I wasn't sure what I'd bought. There were marginal illustrations throughout which gave it a faint Disney aroma - multiple on every page. An example below, Mielche's sketch of the loading of cattle onto a ship.



A skim through the pages didn't read like travel writing. It looked a bit like boy's own adventure.

It is Mielche's account of his voyage to Patagonia (given the book was first published in 1939, I'm guessing shortly before then), specifically Punta Arenas (Magallanes), Tierra del Fuego and jaunts into the surrounding channels, including (AND I AM INSANELY JEALOUS) going around Cape Horn in a sail boat. He writes with a wonderful warm voice, a kind and I would say cultured voice, which I admit lead me to assume he would be therefore carrying around all the things that one carries around when one is from a polite and civilised society - a mind assuming the right of colonisation and differentiation between the races and that our way is best, jolly what ho!

I was incredibly wrong, which may be because he is Danish and not British (ooh, further assumptions there), or may be because he really is just a decent, intelligent, and compassionate man. Either way, this made the book less a book of travel writing, and more a sort of long comfortable recounting of an adventure by an old friend.

Chapter 4 is titled "which may be skipped, as it has to do with dry history". He's tongue in cheek, cheeky, and has a keen eye for the absurd. Part of this 'dry history' I was already familiar with, good ol' Magellan, and even so, there was nothing dry about it.

Magallanes made a short stop at Teneriffe in the classic tradition, for it was here Columbus lay for some months while they repaired the caravel Pinta's rudder, and since then it had become the custom to take a breather there and shoot one or two of the aborigines, the Gaunches.

I distinctly remember snorting my drink through my nose on reading that. I say again: cheeky.

He thoroughly covers the history of the region, a somewhat heart-breaking history that he does not attempt to paint as anything but. The growth of sheep farms had, at the time of writing, felled many of the old woods to make way for further pampas for the sheep, aka, white gold, and in turn driving the native tribes out of their lands. The wildlife has suffered. Missionaries with good intentions brought God and civilisation to the natives, and when Mielche visited, some seventy years ago, one of the tribes was dead, the other two in their final handfuls of people. Disease killed them. Civilisation killed them. The sadness and regret is palpable when he visits these people and the missions, and though he does not overtly cast judgment upon any there is no small amount of anger at the injustice there too.

He tells the stories of the towns he stays in, the stories of the estancias he visits and the families that take him in, he tells the stories of the lakes and mountains he sees, the mines he tours, the islands he passes. He tells the stories of the people he meets, the boats he sails on, the rattly old cars he sits in. He tells the story of a mongrel dog, half sheep dog, half otter hunter. He tells his own stories - he had a bit of an Old Tokaido Highway moment himself. He takes an immense interest in the world around him, and how it got to be the way it is, whether that be by the efforts of man or by the careless happenings of nature.

Reading this book was just...wonderful. Mielche is excited by the world he explores, and this love saturates the words he writes. Even when he's half killed himself on a remote island in the Straits, or sick as hell sailing in a storm, or stranded in the prison town Ushuaia waiting for his idle ship back - he loves it. He adores it. He's having the time of his life.

I think I fell a little bit in love with him, to be honest. Oh, the years that separate us...

Verdict: Best surprise book I've dove into. I love this book. I touch it and look at the maps and sniff the pages. Shall definitely keep an eye out for more of his books, purely out of appreciation for intelligent, insightful, humourous writing of course (and not because I have a crush on him, not at all).

(Oh good heavens! I've been googling around trying to find out anything him, and I just stumbled upon this. Isn't it gorgeous? He drew it! I recognise his style from all the doodles in my book.)

(And OH MY GOODNESS. His name popped up here. HE HUNTS SEA MONSTERS. BE STILL MY BEATING HEART.)

(He's dead, isn't he?)

(*sad*)

One - Conrad Williams

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

I told Miss Apricot that this book was all about exploring the father-son relationship, and that the colours suited her outfit perfectly, and she agreed to pose for the photo. Then I told her what it was also about, and she tried to eat my shorts, but I'd already taken the photo, nyah nyah. And the colours do suit her.

No misdirection, that is what the book is about, but it does it against the back drop of the apocalypse. And the bit that comes after the apocalypse. I have not read The Road, but one thing everyone comments on is that it appears to be a lot of very open and bleak landscape. That's what that book is.

This book is less about open and bleak landscape, and more about the catastrophic destruction of history and civilisation, and the horrible things you see and do while trying not to die. And even after the end of the world, that continues. Not much contemplation of landscape, unless you're contemplating sensible things, like what's a like spot for an ambush, are there any exit points, and oh fuckberries did something over there just move I think something moved oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck-

The first few chapters of this book are just...you know, I should have expected it really. It's Conrad Williams, in fact I think he's gone so far as to earn the middle title, so it's Conrad Fucking Williams, and of course the book is going to be like getting a stapler covered in twisted pokey staples shoved down my throat and rumble around in my gut. Of course it's going to flatten you by merely batting its eyelashes at you, and leave you stunned and reeling on the train, not even close to your station yet but having to close the book and look around and confirm what you just read has not happened, and if it did happen you'd be very lucky and die right away, so it's all good, think of rainbows and unicorns and do not lie down on the floor at the horror and futility of it all, because damn, the book is just that powerful.

So it should be. The end of the world is a powerful thing. Tossed about in pop culture so happily as it is, it's losing its teeth. This book is all teeth.

To my utter delight, the book showed signs of tying into that brilliantly cool world first seen in 'Nearly People'. In an odd sort of history lesson, it gives no answers as to what happened, or why, only revealing what it was like in those early days. (The horror, the horror...)

As you can probably tell, the lengths one man stretches his love and hope in order to survive on the inside in such an environment are extreme. It's not a kind book. It won't be gentle with you. It will awe you with the destruction of all things, awe you with the terrifying beauty of what now constitutes 'all things', impress you with its unforgiving, unflinching relentlessness, and when you put it down, you'll feel washed out and used up and wrung dry.

You tell yourself you never want to go through that again (and you know it's a lie).

Verdict: Powerful books will have powerful effects.

The City & The City - China Miéville

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

I've always loved Miéville's world building, he has an exceptionally unfettered imagination and plunders from sources as yet still rich and ripe. It's rough, and raw, and loud. Brutal and unrepentant. Bewildering and awe-inspiring.

Generally, such vibrancy makes up for unbalanced plotting and prose. When reading his books, I generally get the impression that he is not in control of his writing. He's riding it, but that bronco isn't listening to him (and I say this having loved every single one of his books regardless).

When I finished this book, all I could think was, "Wow. He tamed that bull."

There's a precision in prose, plot, characterisation, a precision in everything that is new and exquisite. The relationship between the two cities is revealed slowly, the perfectly appropriate detail being fed to the reader at exactly the right moment in the only order there could be for the reader to have the world shift slowly beneath their feet without any sort of culture shock, no adjustment or suspension of disbelief kicking in. It was amazing to behold, something that's rare to encounter in any work of fiction.

I wasn't sure the climax would be equal to the mystery that swelled in the book and threatened to split the pages, or that the final denouement would be sufficient, and it almost wasn't, but it juuuuuuuust was. Just enough. Just enough for me to consider this the best thing Miéville has written to date.

Verdict: I'm going with the majority of talk and saying it's a damn fine book, this. Damn fine.

Beneath the Red Sun - Ben Peek

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

Matthew Brady was a soldier, and as a soldier he killed people the state deemed it appropriate to kill. On his own initiative, he killed a man the state did not deem it appropriate to kill, and because he laughed at the hypocrisy practiced in the court room, he was sentenced to transportation.

On the day of his release, he is approached by a mortician who informs him his brother and family have been murdered, and that the whereabouts of the murderers is known.

What to do.

I'd say this story is like an onion - nothing but layers on layers on layers with shit that will sting your eyes (and it totally will) - but that's not entirely true. It's more like a Mandelbrot picture. Saying it's an onion implies that beneath all the layers is a core. Mandelbrots never end. If you wish, you could read it as nothing more than a cycle-of-violence/revenge story. Good luck trying it. I don't think it's possible to read such an intensely unforgiving story and be oblivious to the many grey areas and uneasy questions being posed. Class, race, gender, culture, personal ethics and political morals, and more. It's meaty, yet lean. No spare flesh, all the muscle on the bones is exactly what is required and does not lie idle.

It's also the most Australian not-Australia I've encountered in fiction. Heat (possibly empathising a bit much due to the weather today and tomorrow) and dust, and dust and heat. A desert that isn't sand, but dried cracked clay, run through with gullies and no water. Townships set up to mimic the Motherland, impractical in the new climate. Massive divides between the colonisers and colonised. Half-castes caught between. And oh, I don't know, I know I'm babbling now, but it was just breath-taking. The details were perfect, precise, and fresh.

And you may not notice if you're from the US or UK, but there's a shitload of books based in or extrapolated-not-too-loosely-from US/UK in both landscape and history, and it's quite easy to overdose on it. At least, I hit saturation point pretty regularly. Hence I leap about seeking out books from other places, to counterbalance and keep me interested in reading. Keep it fresh.

And here! Something based on the furious, cheating, thieving, murdering history that makes up the world I live in, something I'm pretty familiar with, and yet, was goddamn fresh. Man, I want more. Washed my head right clean.

Fuck kangaroos. Let's get murdering and looting.

(You know, I almost understand nationalism. Here's a piece of fiction that makes me raise my fist and go "FUCK YEAH! THAT'S MY HOME! BE JEALOUS AND WEEP YE OTHERS!")

(Which further leads to the idea of looking for yourself in fiction, something I have never really understood because I've considered myself too much a mongrel with outsider psychology to even consider a character would echo me, but this, I think this is what was meant...)

It's also a brilliant piece of craft. There are two streams, one following Matthew going forward in time, the other being Matther's brother's diary. Although we already know the family's fate, both streams are equal in their power to progress the plot and gift the reader with further insight into the politics and personalities involved. In a strange way, the two streams work backwards as they thread around each other. It must have been a headache to write, but extraordinary to read.

You can't buy this book because it isn't published. The world is fucked up like that.

Verdict: Fucking oarsum, and oh please some one buy it and publish it?

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas - Hunter S. Thompson

THIS BLOG NEEDS MORE SHARK ERECTION.
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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

I've had a couple of glasses of lemonade and something to eat now, feeling a little less monstrous.

I remember reading this at a backpackers down in Apollo Bay, and being asked by the various people witness to me reading exactly what the book was, because I was laughing so much. In all I've heard of the Beat writers, I don't think anyone's ever told me they were a bunch of comedians. Absurdism just runs to my taste.

Having not seen the movie I had no idea what to expect, and now I think of it, I can't remember what prompted me to pick the book up at all. Glad I did, regardless. It hilarious and appalling, following the Duke and his 'lawyer' through several drug-saturated mayhem-infested days in Las Vegas, covering a motorcycle race, a narcotics conference, and several hotel rooms in shit. The two of them stagger from calamity of calamity and bluff their way out of a ridiculous amount of disasters and...you know, reading it made me never want to go near drugs. Ever. That is an alarming world to move through. Perfect for watching other people traverse.

What has stayed with me since reading is a single scene, with the two of them sitting in a diner and telling the waitress they're looking for "the American Dream" and the conversation that follows seeing them given haphazard instructions to what has become a bar? club? called the Psychiatrist's Lounge or similar. The whole 204 pages of the story serves to give this scene the context it requires to be heard.

Verdict: Fucking oarsum. SHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARK!

Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman - Haruki Murakami

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

I've had a headache all day, which turned into a migraine, so I popped some pills and faceplanted into unconsciousness, and the migraine has scaled back but I just woke up for the second time in a day which is just not done so I'm groggy as all hell and not going to attempt to be insightful or intelligent or witty.

So.

Collection of short stories. Never read Murakami before. Excellent starter. Every story beautifully sculpted. They're delicate things, the most delicate pieces of writing I've ever read, and I don't know that I'm sure I know what I mean by that. Aside from the fact that they're written by and set largely in Japan, they remain very Japanese stories - a great amount is said without saying anything at all, in fact what is not said almost plays a greater role than what is on the page. Also a sense of having taken not one step from the first page through to the last, yet of vast distances being traveled. Things have changed without changing. Blessedly subtle, gentle, soft.

I did want to comment on the use of author as character in a work of fiction, seeing as I'm dreadfully guilty of it, and I love 'Errata' by Jeff VanderMeer and 'Twenty-Six Lies/One Truth' by Ben Peek, but I'm not being intelligent or insightful.

Perhaps it adds some veneer of honesty. That there is nothing we wouldn't do to the things we make up that we won't do to ourselves first.

Verdict: Master wordsmith and story-crafter, he deserves the awards and accolades he receives, plus more.