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.

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.

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.

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

Traveling Illegally in Tibet; Reiteration

From Life on the Tibetan Plateau, Traveling Illegally in Tibet;

...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.

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.

Home is a state of mind.

"I hear Interzone's really nice this time of year."

-- William Lee, The Naked Lunch

I'd like to be reincarnated as a happy rabid mutt wading across the glacial melt-water of Dzong-chu beyond Kailash's shadow.

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.

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.

Oh for fuck's sake, how long does it take for walls to just fucking close in already.

Priorities; Mundane, and Eroded

I saw Karen Healey doing it, and it made me hungry. For the hell of it, I decided to copy her, and photograph my dinners in the last week. There was the vague hope there that it might prompt me to cook.

At the time, I said it would probably amount to five photographs of peanut butter toast.

Gosh but I do have high expectations of myself.

Monday



A promising start! There was actually tomato in the fridge, and so I treated myself to toasted cheese and tomato, with oregano, basil, salt and pepper. Sounds awesome? Is awesome.

Except I wasn't in the mood to wait for the grill to melt the cheese, so I put it in the microwave.

Which melted the cheese alright.

And made the tomatoes somewhat nuclear.

The whole roof of my mouth was burned and is, a week later, still rotting.

Tuesday

Tuesday was a day in which every step I took resulted in the discovery of quicksand, or fire ants, or broken glass, or horseshit.

Tuesday I went home and ate vodka for dinner.



Except while my head was certainly in the mood for vodka, my body wasn't. I poured that glass, looked at it, and then walked away.

Wednesday

Wednesday is not an individual, and since Wednesday saw Tuesday being needlessly callous to me, Wednesday followed suit.

I went home knowing that there was already a pre-poured glass of vodka sitting on the bench and my only goal for the rest of the day was to drink it.

Instead I made a cup of tea.



Thursday

Thursday night is for swing dancing. There was no dinner.

Friday

Friday I ate someone else's dinner. It was actually the only real meal I ate all week, and it was very delicious, and I completely failed to take a photo of it.

Saturday

The glass of vodka was still sitting on the bench come Saturday morning. Purely because it amused me, this failure to make it go away, and because continuing to document its existence seemed appropriate, I took another photo.



Then I looked at my To Do List. Every time I write a To Do List, "write" is at the bottom. After cleaning the toilet.

Every time I realise where I've put it in my priorities, I shake a little.

On Saturday I had vodka for breakfast.

The Spam Perspective

Breaking my keyboard hiatus to share this.

The Watchmen of Captcha do a pretty good job of keeping the spambots out of the comments section here, while providing you kids with some fairly amusing strings of letters. As such, it was surprising to get home and find the place had been carpet bombed with spam comments smeared across the archives. By Jove, how had the annoying little bots got past my watchmen?

Answer:



It wasn't the work of a bot. That's a person who sat and read what they were smearing spam on.

I like to think that I provided that poor benighted sod with a few minutes (24:19 exactly according to the stats) of amusement before they clicked on to drop their spammy blessings on another blog.

And to you, my readers both known and unknown, I say unto you that you may at times dislike your occupation, resent the time it takes from your life and feel that it is crushing your soul, but at least you can admit to it in public.

The Dysfunctional Relationship Artists Have With...Everything

For this post to make sense you'll need to reference the previous and watch that video.

I spent the night, probably my sleep, and most of my snooze button soft crash into wakefulness chewing over the notion of 'having genius' instead of 'being genius'. I'm a little besotted with the idea.

At a glance I imagine it's distasteful to some, pushing, as it does, the idea of invisible entities be they called muse, daemon, genie, angel, faery, spirit, Fred. What Gilbert is trying to sell, however, is not belief in these things - that's a whole other conversation in which I admit I'm not much interested in - but the usefulness they serve as a mental construct.

She speaks of the emotional risks inherent in the creative process, which resonated with me. There are the obvious stresses associated with placing a work in the public eye; will it be liked, hated, understood, will it be successful, will it be rejected entirely and never be consumed by the public because you are the crappiest artist in all the history of all the cosmos; these are the natural doubts when you put yourself forward for anything.

However I choose to believe that she was speaking of the other risks that come well before considerations of audience reception come into play, the risks we take with ourselves while in the process of creating the work. We pour ourselves into it, we draw upon lessons, memory and knowledge that we may not wish to visit, we take on aspects that do not come naturally to us. I've always said that for writers in particular, the act of writing a story is not unlike forcing the literal definition of a split personality upon yourself.

And, I don't know, the creative process defies predictability and repetition, and I do not believe it is destructive, but it is not always nice, and doing these things to yourself because you love what you do, tearing yourself up because the work requires you to do so, they are hard things.

To then be able to say, "That kinda sucked, and you could have been a little gentler about it," in a disgruntled, passive-aggressive manner to some intangible thought construct and lay some of the responsibility for what happened upon it, well, any less ammunition for the artist to use upon themselves is a good thing, right?

It's this idea of distance. It smells fantastic, like freshly crushed coriander and cummin all mixed together. I'd eat it but I can't stop sniffing it. Distance not only from the work, but from the idea of talent as well.

To be talented is a crippling thing.

I have been told that I have talent. The people who have said this to me are not individuals with a vested interest in keeping me on side and gain nothing from stroking my ego. They were not speaking of craft, but of that part of art that cannot be learned, that essence of creativity that can't be picked up or passed on.

For the creative mind to consider the fact of its own talent is probably one of the most dangerous thought paths to follow. Might as well drive a steamroller over a minefield.

It's one thing to entertain dreams of grandeur and quite another to realise they could be a reality. That maybe you have something that is unique, and that others can see. Suddenly, there are ramifications to everything you do. Are you living up to your talent? Have you wasted it? Do you meet the expectations of those who have recognised it? By having this talent you did not earn are you bruising the already sensitive egos of the creators around you? Will there be a price for using something you haven't earned? Is it possible to exercise control over something entirely unconscious? What if you come to depend on it? What if it goes away?

This is not about any alleged talent I may have, but the weight and damage that merely considering it did. To consider talent left me terrified of using it. It has taken years to be reconcile myself with the idea, all of which has nothing to do with anything I've produced. The work goes on (or not) regardless.

But if someone had given me permission to disown the idea of talent, I daresay those years would have been spent being decidedly more relaxed about my writing.

There is a parallel with photography. I have absolutely no technique, skill, technical or theoretical knowledge, and so I don't feel I can claim ownership of any of the compliments my photographs garner. "I didn't do that," I say. "The world was there, I pressed the button and the camera did the rest."

Now of my stories I can say, "I didn't do that. The story was there, I opened to a new page and the [ ] did the rest."

The difference between being a vessel and a conduit. Gilbert's speech resonated so powerfully with me because she gave voice to a practice I've been slowly and stealthily ninjaing upon myself for some time. A space that is me, but not me. A trapdoor to the subconscious, down which I will deliberately shove stories and let whatever it is down there do whatever it is it does until it is ready to release the story back to me. There is something that is me, but not me. Something over which I have no control. Something that does not come from me.

I'm not going to call it Fred.

But, there is always a but. When you change the creative process from one of dictation to a conversation, then there must be another party with which to have the conversation, which means you are essentially engaging in a relationship with something that is Not Called Fred.

And when I turned this over in my mind, all I saw was a whole lot of issues. Like, not trusting NotFred to actually contribute. Feeling betrayed and rejected when NotFred does not produce the goods. Trying to make myself infinitely more attractive to NotFred, or NotFred's friends. Wondering what is wrong with me that NotFred&Friends talk to everyone else but not me. Deciding this is because I am hopeless and useless and worthless.

Etc, etc...

Which probably says more about me than anything else, but I believe that that poor, insecure, fragile, hopeful and despairing creative mind can find weapons to use against itself no matter what thought constructs are in place.

Still, I prefer NotFred to the thought of inspiration being sourced solely from within.

I find I disagree with the very end of Gilbert's speech. She has put forth the idea that creative transcendence - which we have all felt all too briefly - is not something we can find within ourselves but are graced to feel or not feel its touch according to the whims of something unknowable and unreasonable, and that a word for that something may as well be 'god'. When we are caught up in that passion which is equal parts exhilaration and desperation and in the paws of which we are tiny furious creatures, there, in our work, is god. And if god, the genie, NotFred has touched us...olé.

But then she says that even if god, the genie, NotFred never comes near us again, or never noticed us at all, yet still we labour at our craft...olé, she says, there is god anyway.

And by doing so, by putting god back in the artist when there is no god at work, she undermines that brilliant, necessary idea which was the point of her whole speech.

No. If god isn't there, then god isn't there.

Maybe god will only rip through us once, and never again. Maybe we will never channel god in our work. We can sit down and write, paint, design, draw, mould, stitch, whatever it is you are creating, and there will be no god in the end product. We can wait, and work, but diligence does not equal divine inspiration.

The work produced may be flawed, technically sound, thorough, clever, cliché, bold, unbalanced, dull, merely okay. The work produced may be the lewd loud shit of those who have not yet even begun to realise the challenges involved in creativity, or it could be the crisp precision of a master of the craft and years of rich experience.

It will not have that frightening fire to it, will not smell of freshly crushed coriander and cummin, and god won't know it exists.

It will be yours, and only yours.

And that is a thought construct worth taking pride in as well.

Elizabeth Gilbert on nurturing creativity

Pointed out by Ian McHugh.

We writers, we kind of do have that reputation, and not just writers, but creative people across all genres, it seems, have this reputation for being enormously mentally unstable. And all you have to do is look at the very grim death count in the 20th century alone, of really magnificent creative minds who died young and often at their own hands, you know? And even the ones who didn't literally commit suicide seem to be really undone by their gifts, you know. Norman Mailer, just before he died, last interview, he said "Every one of my books has killed me a little more." An extraordinary statement to make about your life's work, you know. But we don't even blink when we hear somebody say this because we've heard that kind of stuff for so long and somehow we've completely internalized and accepted collectively this notion that creativity and suffering are somehow inherently linked and that artistry, in the end, will always ultimately lead to anguish.

When I started watching the clip I became a little apprehensive, especially when she began drawing that line, that line I dislike immensely, between the creative process and mental illness. Much as I am not exactly a poster girl for disproving that mistaken assumption, I think that having wrassled with both monsters I'm in a position to say, with authority, "That is shit from a bull."

Thankfully, Gilbert continued on after the above, with this;

And the question that I want to ask everybody here today is are you guys all cool with that idea?

...I'm not at all comfortable with that assumption.

I think it's odious.

Fuck. Yeah.

And so, it seems to me, upon a lot of reflection, that the way that I have to work now, in order to continue writing, is that I have to create some sort of protective psychological construct, right? I have to, sort of find some way to have a safe distance between me, as I am writing, and my very natural anxiety about what the reaction to that writing is going to be, from now on. And, as I've been looking over the last year for models for how to do that I've been sort of looking across time, and I've been trying to find other societies to see if they might have had better and saner ideas than we have about how to help creative people, sort of manage the inherent emotional risks of creativity.

...ancient Greece and ancient Rome -- people did not happen to believe that creativity came from human beings back then, OK? People believed that creativity was this divine attendant spirit that came to human beings from some distant and unknowable source, for distant and unknowable reasons. The Greeks famously called these divine attendant spirits of creativity "daemons."...The Romans had the same idea, but they called that sort of disembodied creative spirit a genius. Which is great, because the Romans did not actually think that a genius was a particularly clever individual. They believed that a genius was this, sort of magical divine entity, who was believed to literally live in the walls of an artist's studio, kind of like Dobby the house elf, and who would come out and sort of invisibly assist the artist with their work and would shape the outcome of that work.

So brilliant -- there it is, right there that distance that I'm talking about -- that psychological construct to protect you from the results of your work...the ancient artist was protected from certain things, like, for example, too much narcissism, right? If your work was brilliant you couldn't take all the credit for it, everybody knew that you had this disembodied genius who had helped you. If your work bombed, not entirely your fault, you know? Everyone knew your genius was kind of lame. And this is how people thought about creativity in the West for a really long time.

And then the Renaissance came and everything changed, and we had this big idea, and the big idea was let's put the individual human being at the center of the universe above all gods and mysteries, and there's no more room for mystical creatures who take dictation from the divine. And it's the beginning of rational humanism, and people started to believe that creativity came completely from the self of the individual. And for the first time in history, you start to hear people referring to this or that artist as being a genius rather than having a genius.

And I got to tell you, I think that was a huge error. You know, I think that allowing somebody, one mere person to believe that he or she is like, the vessel you know, like the font and the essence and the source of all divine, creative, unknowable, eternal mystery is just a smidge too much responsibility to put on one fragile, human psyche. It's like asking somebody to swallow the sun. It just completely warps and distorts egos, and it creates all these unmanageable expectations about performance. And I think the pressure of that has been killing off our artists for the last 500 years.

I'm in danger of cutting and pasting the whole transcript. I just watched it, so I'm still processing and irrationally in love with what she said. There's a fabulous example of putting the creative essence on the outer that she gives later in the video, from none other than Tom Waits, which made me laugh. Now I'm thinking of it again, it's making me cry.

There have been times I've been afraid of my writing, because when I've looked back at it, it was too good for me.

Telling myself that perhaps it never came from me at all? That makes it okay to live with.

But then...what if that outer interference never interferes again? What if you're touched once, and then left alone to plod on after that moment of glory for the rest of your mortal life?

I don't think I've ever come across a more uplifting context for "just carry on" than this.

Baggage; Many Copies of

UPDATE: NO SPARE COPIES LEFT

The launch of Baggage was stupefying.

photo filched from alan baxter

It was so stupefying that I'm not actually going to write about it, I'm just going to filch from Gillian's blog:

The Baggage launch was lovely, though Mr Dann and I got up to a great deal of mischief during the signings. I hadn't actually thought I would need to give a speech at the launch. Honestly. I helped make sandwiches, and people who make sandwiches don't give speeches. Which is crazy thinking, since I've always maintained that the people who make sandwiches should *always* give speeches, especially if they're the editor of the book being launched. The key role of second sandwich assistant is not the whole of my life, after all.

And all those wonderful writers sat there and smiled - they know me too well. And there were a large number of equally wonderful writers in attendance. The writing community is just warm and generous and entirely made of awesome. And Sharyn Lilley is all that and with bells on. Baggage is off to a fine start in the world. Also, three different people who had head starts on the book told me that they can't see Federation Square without Tessa's story overshadowing it.

There was something of a signature production line with the attending contributors, and while I had myself a fine time being in reach of the sammiches and playing up with Madames Deb Biancotti and Maxine McArthur, I lost count of how many copies I scribbled in. A few people (possibly the same people) at the launch and even during the con in the days following were generous enough to tell me they'd read my story and-

You know, no one says they enjoyed it, or that they liked it. It isn't that sort of story.

But they read it, and it affected them, affected them enough to speak to me, and that means something.

I suppose I should come clean with myself and finally admit that, yeah, this story means something to me too.



I took my contributor payment in books, not money. It's all part of my cunning plan to get this book read.

Melbournians wishing to get their hands on a copy, may I direct you to Borders on South Wharf? I wandered back in a couple of days back, and Baggage has prime position on a shelf end. The staff there were brilliant during the launch, and their support should be supported in turn.

Australians wishing to get their hands on a copy, I shall direct you to the publisher's site, where you may order online. (Gillian's latest novel is also up for grabs there. Nudgehintnudge.)

And for those of you overseas?

I've made queries with Sharyn, the publisher, and if you wish to purchase from her please shoot her an email. She's more than happy to work out shipping for you, no matter where you are.

Or;

There is this massive pile of Baggage sitting on my desk.

They need to get OFF my desk and OUT into the world and be READ.

If you overseas and would like a copy, put your hand up. They're on offer until they're all gone, it's as simple as that. If you're in a position to review, blog, post about the book in some fashion, I'll take that as payment. If you're not, hell, just read it and I'll take that as payment too.

Of Baggage people have said:

"Baggage is a fascinating exploration of Australian issues through characters and situations that feel immediate and real. There's little in the way of escapism here, but instead much subtlety and nuance, combined with stunning writing. From the incendiary, no-holds-barred 'Acception' by Tessa Kum to the quiet power of K.J. Bishop's 'Vision Splendid', and beyond, this anthology tackles difficult and diverse subject matter." Jeff VanderMeer, World Fantasy award winner

"An excellent cross-section of the current Australian fiction scene-and a potential must-have for 2010." Ann VanderMeer, Hugo award winner.

"Baggage collects many of the finest voices in Australian speculative fiction. Each author contributes a unique cultural perspective, with stories ranging from the deeply personal to the highly disturbing. Baggage an anthology not to be missed." Shane Jiraya Cummings, OzHorrorScope

"This is a well-rounded anthology, entertaining and thought-provoking in one. The stories were all easy to read, even the ones that made my teeth hurt (Tessa Kum and Janeen Webb’s stories did that for me, but in a good, thought-provoking way)." Joanne Kasper, ASIF

Of Acception people have said:

"Is good. Is fucking good." Deborah Kalin

"I think reading your story first was like having hot chilli before going to a wine tasting. Kinda rendered the literary tastebuds useless for anything else for a while." Ian McHugh

"There's an awful lot of you in there, isn't there? And "Colin"! "Colin" isn't a name to give a character!" Mum

"Colin is too a name! A fine name! Viva le Colin!" Me

The Enigmatic Arthur Miller

Number of people who introduced themselves to me as "Arthur Miller": 0.

I coerced Gillian into saying it, but she immediately followed with a retraction of the statement. The awesome Elizabeth reflected that she should have said it, but didn't. And THE Arthur Miller did not introduce himself, but only requested that I sign his copy of Baggage to Arthur Miller. I have seen the Enigmatic Arthur Miller! But the challenge was something of a non-event. As such I will not be shoving a whole lolly snake up my nose and making a comic out of it.

Wait.

Now I think of it.

People get books signed for friends all the time.

Which could mean.

Now I think about it.

That wasn't Arthur Miller at all.





THE MYSTERIES NEVER CEASE.

i saw two birds lost at sea

While this place has collected some dust in the last couple of weeks - the background image is entirely the appropriate texture for dust - I've done a wee bit of guest blogging, as part of the blog tour leading up to the launch of Baggage. A round up of links can be found here and here.

My contributions consist of a long-winded ramble over on that cool frood Jeff VanderMeer's blog: When the Cover Doesn't Match the Story

Exhibit 6: The taxi drivers in Kathmandu see a lot.

“No, I’m not Nepali. I’m half-Chinese.”

“But you are not Chinese.”

“Half-white Australian. I know. I don’t look like anything.”

“Ah,” he said, and nodded knowingly at me in the rear view mirror. He took me to Kathmandu International Airport without further conversation, and three hours later I began my long slog home.

He was the only person in three weeks to be unfazed by my background.

This post also contained a photo collage of my face, and because it is the single most painful graphic I have ever been foolish enough to decide to produce, I'm posting it here too.



I hate my face.

Remember, the Baggage launch is this Thursday, 1pm at Borders in the South Wharf DFO. Given who is overseeing the catering, the food will be awesome. And by awesome I mean "kill you with deliciousness".

My second blog-invasion was over on Deborah Kalin's lovely, neat, concise online cubby house, where I proceeded to blort another long-winded ramble: Tibet is... I tried to be succinct, really I did.

My life is one of close horizons. No horizons at all, in fact. With all the trees, curves and slopes, my sense of distance is heavily skewed. I assume, not wrongly when in context, that if I can see it, it is in easy walking distance. Half an hour max.

Tibet fooled me over and over. Distance and size conspired to slap my suburban assumptions upside the head every time I gazed at the world, which was all day, every day.

There are a few photos of Tibet accompanying that post, one of which I'll filch and shove right here.



This photo contains a perspective-jab. Oh yes, mountains in the distance, lovely-

Until you lean in close to squint at that little rise of dust in the middle pane and realise that is a car, tiny and distant, which means those mountains are...

And hey kids! Deb is launching Shadow Bound this Saturday! 1pm in room 203 of the Melbourne Convention and Exhibition Centre. There will be books for sale, a Mysterious Door Prize of Mystery, give aways, some more awesome food, and that devastatingly talented author Deborah Kalin herself. She's also reading, signing, and kaffeklatching at Worldcon. All the information you require to stalk her can be found here.

Thank you to Jeff and Deb for letting me mess their blogs up.

Now, it has been brought to my attention that the enigmatic Arthur Miller shall also be attending Worldcon, and has stated his intention to be present at the Baggage launch. He? Is that known for certain? To my knowledge, THE Arthur Miller is deceased, and unlikely to attend, awesome catering or no.

Well.

Actually zombies are really in at the moment. A zombie dramatist playwright is probably inevitable.

Cease, tangent! Anyway! What? Right, Arthur Miller. I do not know who the enigmatic Arthur Miller is, therefore, the enigmatic Arthur Miller could be anyone.

You see what I'm hinting at?

At the end of Worldcon, I'll report back on how many people came and introduced themselves to me as Arthur Miller. You hear that, people? I want more than TEN, got that? If we can get more than ten, I'll, uh...do something probably entirely in keeping with the character of this blog.

Shove a whole lolly snake up my nose and make a comic out of it, probably.

How To Destroy Sir Tessa One Piece Of Bloody Science At A Time

From Matt Staggs:

The Triceratops Never Existed, It Was Actually a Young Version Of Another Dinosaur

Scientists are saying that the Triceratops dinosaur—you know, the three horned one—was actually a juvenile form of a Torosaurus, the three horned dinosaur you don't know. Apparently, dinosaurs' skulls can shape-shift.

The scientists, John Scannella and Jack Horner, believe that the Torosaurus and Triceratops are actually of the same species. According to the them, as a Triceratops aged, its horns and frill became more similar to that of a Torosaurus. Short becomes long, saw-edged becomes smoothed and so on. Having them be the same species would explain why there were never any young Torosaurus fossils discovered.

Fuck you, science.



Bert Lives.