All grown up

seeking god

2010-03-27T22:08:00.001-07:00

I’m not entirely sure when, but at some point in the last six months I stopped believing in God. This is kind of a big deal, seeing as for most of my life I have been so wildly interested in religion and spirituality that it has dominated vast quantities of my internal life. I’m the guy whose read the Tao Te-Chang and enjoyed it. I’ve devoured most of the Bible. I’ve been to a Krishna birthday ceremony and chanted in sacred Sanskrit. At every juncture I’ve kept a safe intellectual distance, but responding the same to every encounter: ‘wow, isn’t that so fascinating?’

Tales of faith and affinity with the divine are life’s most moving stories. Or at least they were for me some time ago. In this past summer gone, when my days were filled with writing in Brisbane, I would take breaks by walking through the city streets and always spending sometime inside St. Stephen’s Cathedral, marveling at it’s beauty and stillness. I thought several times about going to mass, but it simply never happened. I was too afraid to be sucked into a vortex. It was a vulnerable time for me, and I didn’t want to strengthen myself through an external mythical force. I wanted to strengthen myself from the inside.

Somewhere between those walks and last week, I abandoned all of this abruptly and became swept up in a different vortex all together: the fashionably militant atheist movement. It wasn’t until a friend turned to me last week, and asked ‘Do you believe in God?’ and I stumbled, that I realised, in fact - no, I didn’t.

This is fine, in and of itself. But I’m unhappy about this. I’ve grown sour and bitter about religion. It isn’t so much that I don’t believe in anything, it’s that I don’t want to believe in what they believe in. I’ve had instances lately where I’ve come across people so blindly religious that they’ve hurt others in their blindness. This slayed me. I also, not insignificantly, kind of let go of any idea of an after life. I think we just die. And that’s it. How else could it be? That is life. But I reach these conclusions with such uneasy resentment that I’ve come to understand - I need God. Some concept of it. To be happy, I need to believe in something. Perhaps this is false, perhaps I am on the bridge of pure reasoned enlightenment, grounded in sanity. But I’m not that big a fan of people who are absolutely sane. And I do look for poetry and meaningless beauty in life. I don’t look for rules, structure and guilt, but I do look for grace and beauty. This is my God.

And in the past week, this God has showed up again, because I’ve started asking where on Earth He/She/It has buggered off to.

I’ll reveal a secret here now that will further damn my hopes of ever appearing like I actually act my age, or indeed my gender. Late on Thursday I baked for a sick friend I’d be seeing the next day. It had been so long since I had cooked anything. I had the kitchen to myself, I had Eat Pray Love on audiobook in my ear, and a pile of cookies to make for another. And my God showed up to help.

The sheer unadulterated bliss that this brought me, perfect and glorious in it’s solitude, was unfathomable. For the first time in months, my heart and soul were quiet, still, and smiling. A mysterious event in that it was perfect.

Yesterday, my car broke down on the side of the road. It was the most relaxed collapse I’d ever witnessed. (Fill in the layers of metaphor here for yourselves.) I was rocking along at 80 k, when the battery light came on and Biscut came to an ever so slow stop. I tried to start him again a couple of times. For the first time I can remember, I prayed. I spoke aloud:

‘God, I’m really really tired and I want to get home. It would be really good if Biscut could start again, and break down closer to home. I know you’re busy, and I’m grateful for all the wonderful things in my life. But right now, I just really need my car to start.’

I tried again. It didn’t start.

I made the necessary phone calls and sat on the hood of my car, waiting. It would be quite a wait. I was on a side road, just outside a service station, with the highway directly in front of me.

I didn’t see the crash, I heard it. A very real and heavy thunk rung out. I looked up to see a 4wd balancing on two wheels. Time slowed and I was certain it would tip over. It didn’t. It regained it’s balance in a way that only the law of physics can accomplish and slowed to a halt, revealing a ute with a tremendous dent in it’s passenger door just behind it.

The driver of the 4wd, a woman, immediately got out of the car, stiff and hobbling. She stopped in the road. ‘It’s a crash,’ I saw her realise. ‘I’ve just been in a crash.’ And she pulled out her phone.

I was about to run over when the RACQ mechanic turned up and we both looked on in awe. Two other witnesses had run over to help. One was a young father, whose wife and child had stopped at the side of the road to rest. I had smiled politely to them only minutes before. The other was the roadhouse owner, who ran out with a safety vest and a first aid box. Almost as if this happened every Saturday afternoon.

The events that unfolded over the next hour were dramatic: three ambulance vehicles, two police cars, and three towing vans. When the RACQ mechanic was finished with me, he went over and helped out. The young father was over the road for the full hour, giving a statement to the police before moving on. When all was cleaned up, one of the towing guys came over to me. He was to tow my vehicle back, he said, but I’d have to wait. I asked if anyone was hurt. An elderly person had busted a hip, apparently, and all were shaken.

The amount of reverence and respect I encountered and witnessed quite took me back. These strangers banded together to help. And there was something unexplainably regional about the whole scene. I don’t think you’d encounter this much care and attention in Brisbane. I’m not sure why.

If God is in either of these stories, then…

Well I don’t know. But it feels like something was. God or whatever.

That sums up my attitude at the moment.

God or whatever.

Better, for me, than: no God.

I wish I had a better conclusion to this blog cum essay, but I don’t. I don’t think I will for a very long time. So you’ll need to be satisfied with the stories themselves, and with your own version of God. Whatever that is.

Mr. Black Dog

2010-03-16T17:39:00.001-07:00

'I'd awoken amid my State funeral,

nevermore to eat my liver

or feed it to the Black Dog, depression

which the three Johns Hunter seem

to have killed with their scalpels:

it hasn't found its way home,'

-Les Murray, from his poem 'Travels with John Hunter'

Black dog followed me home on my jog this morning. I'm not speaking in Churchillian metaphor here. A black dog did actually follow me home. Huge he was, and when he started running towards me, a good distance from home, I at first was scared. But his intention was clear: he just wanted to say hello. And run. He liked running. So he ran home with me.

And then I was told the dog belonged to someone else down the road. Back he went.

Wolf, apparently, has taken a liking to wondering out of his home lately. He may need to be chained up. Poor Wolf.

Life imitates art, apparently. Some would say this proves God. Others would say it proves life is beautiful. Some say whatever you're searching for you find. Not sure about that. I've been searching for a few things for a long time, and as Bono says in that famous song about his car keys: 'I still haven't found what I'm looking for.' But I'll look on anyway.

Hope you meet a new and wonderful creature today that follows you home. To quote somebody else (I'm in that mode today), Will Eno, 'may every animal find his animal.' (That's from a play, Thom Pain, which you really need to go and see.)

Party on.

warm-up

2010-03-09T14:43:00.000-08:00

getyourheadinthegame headinthegame headinthegame

right, yes, ok, right

in the three hours i have now, i'm going to finish this play. yesyesyes, i must. i will finish it. stuck? never! never stuck. pushonthru pushonthru pushonthru

gotta warm-up, gotta get the juices flowing gotta create...something...

i shall have a cup of tea. that works, usually. a cup of tea...and a ginger and sticky-date cookie. yes. i forgot we had those. ahhhh. good breakfast. now

getyourheadinthegame headinthegame headinthegame

i know what you're thinking. i do. you're thinking...i lost it. i was about to be witty but it went away.

this is what it's like. slippery. wet. slimy. yuck.

musicmusicmusic. is important. i wish I had the money to buy something new. i don't. andrew bird? is it an andrew bird day? is it an andrew bird kinda play? yes. bird. great. bird it is.

you would...again, i attempt to emark. again, i lose it. frig it. frig it damn.

i'm going to go now, stop annoying you, and write this darn play.

in the meantime. here's the first paragraph of an old short story. if you like it, say so. you may get more.

(if you can, open with sex. that's what i say. y the hell not? maybe not appropriate for the children's show I'm about to write...)

Begat Eliza

Simon and Tiff begat Eliza in the dead of night with three bottles of wine inside them and a sense of a job to do in blind ambitious hope. It was a clumsy fuck, and one that received comment from neither party in the decades that followed. Increasing expectation had given way to the sudden twisting happening of it all. He had taken her by surprise. Simon slipped out after the act and the two didn’t talk for three days. An unusual occurrence for them, but overall, the whole affair was unusual and such time was deemed appropriate. Tiff picked up the phone and called him again a few days later, and their friendship resumed as if he had never slammed himself inside of her and she had moaned for more.

that picture

2010-03-06T22:29:00.000-08:00

...probably didn't work

here it is again

clean

2010-03-06T22:09:00.000-08:00

I do so enjoy the superficial feeling of reassurance that I get from giving my room a tidy. Especially this room: my office/bedroom that has not really been touched since I moved in, now over a month ago.

The piccy may not look like much, but trust me - this is a clean desk for me. Amazing event. I can now ignore my work and procrastinate in a clean environment. Ahhh, lovely.

In other news, you should really go the following sites:

http://www.bigthink.com - for 2010's answer to TED.

http://www.helpineedhelp.com - and go to the 'bored' section. Fun for hours.

http://www.nationstates.net - create a fictional country and make policy decisions everyday to build it up over time.

http://www.youtube.com - and type 'derren brown heist' and watch and be amazed.

Also, this:

Hope you're not feeling like this anytime soon.

Love, me

As Good As

2010-02-16T13:13:00.000-08:00

You know that moment when you're into something - a book, a film, a play, a relationship, a cookie - and you realize you've stopped enjoying it? And you realize, 'hey, it's probably not going to get any better'?

And you have a choice in that moment. You can leave. Or you can stay. Tough it out. Endure.

My friend and I went to a play last night that shall remain nameless. We had the option to leave at intermission. We seriously thought about it. It was God-awful. And it didn't look like it was going to get any better. We stayed. It didn't get any better.

I spent a chunk of my Sunday getting to the end of this brick of a novel just for the sake of finishing it. Only to find...a cliffhanger at the end of it. But even that didn't annoy me. I was too indifferent about the entire experience to care, and gladly retired it to the shelf and picked up a shiny new book. I felt lighter having finished the stupid thing.

How many times have I sat down to a meal; a horrible, disgusting, unwanted meal and eaten it anyway? Because it was there. Because in some cases, I paid for it. Because I don't believe in waste.

What stops us from getting up and walking away? Ever? Because now we're in it, we're here, and we owe it something? We owe to see it out? Has the stiff-upper lip of British culture so stained our hereditary line that we feel guilty about abandoning a caesar salad with too much anchovy? Because we didn't do the right thing by the foul fish thing by abandoning it halfway through to vomit profusely in the dirty pub bathroom?

But...if we leave, if we abandon, if we say 'life's too short for this shit' and move on, then...well then...

We will be forever pestered by that thought - 'What if it had gotten better?' 'What if, underneath the slimy mayonnaise bits of fish I found the secret to my entire existence? Something that would fill me with impossible joy and glee? Something that would suddenly make sense out of all this mess? Something that would, goddam it finally make me happy? And I deserve that happiness. Dammit, I will eat this motherfucker of a salad.'

I can't remember a single instance where something has turned around in quality so much to make the first section of drivel that made me consider leaving it worth it. I honestly can't. So much of my life has been wasted on the thought that it'll get better if I just keep going. After all, what you put in, you get in return, right? If I stay, I'll get that attention and care and effort back in return, right? RIGHT?!

And I'm not talking about manners here. I'm not talking about getting up from your Nanna's table yelling 'Life's too short for your under-cooked apple pie bitch' and walking out. Of course not. But I spend my money and time on so many things that just aren't worth it.

So. Let us unite. Take a higher status. Believe in your taste. Believe in your gut. If something tells you that this ain't going to get any better, then leave. You heard me. Get out while you still can. Go and enjoy life - there's an idea.

Sgt. Pepper Sunday

2010-02-13T22:30:00.000-08:00

There's several things this blog SHOULDN'T be, lest I bore you all. Here's a list of the things I won't write about:

profuse excuses as to why this blog has been on hiatus for ages, with lots of details of the amount of work and writing I'm currently doing and how it leads to 14 hour days that are absent of any blogging opportunity.
an almighty Lonely Hearts Club whinge about Valentine's Day, severely tainted by my (somewhat) recent return to single status.
a long account of the four or so hours of television I watched today, my first self-enforced day off in ages. And how all four of those hours were devoted to nothing more sophisticated than watching classic episodes of Doctor Who.
a sad realisation that my single status may be prolonged by the fact that on my days off I watch classic Doctor Who for hours on end.
how this lack of time has meant my recreational reading has slowed to an absolute snail pace and I've slowly drudged through The Eye of The World by Robert Jordan, my first exposure to modern fantasy novels. (Which even I was surprised by.) I'm only 20 pages away from the end of this 800 pager - and I'm not sure if it's worth the final push. Isn't that pathetic? Disappointing read, but somehow managed to keep me compelled.

So, anyway, yes it won't be about any of that. It will be about, I suppose.....ummm...transformation.

As of late, my life has taken on pretty monumental change on several fronts. Some good, some a slight challenge to overcome. Life, ultimately, of course, is one constant motherfucker train of change, and you can either board the train and write crap metaphors like I'm doing right now, or sit at the station and watch it go by and whinge about how it's always late and how your translink go card really isn't worth the trouble, and anyway why are you catching public transport when even the leftiest people in the world are now starting to think climate change might not be as shit scary as we thought, and are you really saving the planet by going to all this trouble to - Anyway, my point is that this kind of change is inevitable. (This kind? Actually all kinds.) And I'm going through a process of accepting these changes.

Actually, I'll be more specific. (And try and steer clear of metaphors that sound like they were written by a school principal.) Change is one thing. Loss is another. Change equals loss, because you lose what's been changed. I'm seeing this on literally so many levels at the moment, in my work, the subject of my work, my personal life, my friends life, seriously everywhere - it's almost freaky.

And in every place I can I'm asking people, often under the guise of 'research' for a play that is, coincidentally, all about loss (but the question has certainly taken on a larger meaning), how do you get past it? How do you move on?

The answers are mixed. Some, although very little, are what I expected. I expected religion, I expected the support of friends and family. But above all, I expected that people would know, that people would have an answer. Particularly my elders, who have gotten through their own turbulent restless 20's and into stable true adulthood. But no, just about all shrug their shoulders and say something along the lines of: 'I don't know. You just...do.'

Endure, and get through it. Head down until you can look up again. Well, sound advice. And I hope this blog hasn't taken on a sad dark undertone than what I meant it to. No one ring alarm bells, all's well. There are no gigantic crises here, just life. And I'm serious, it seems to be a stage that almost everyone I know is going through.

It's likely the new year. Or perhaps it's just me seeing it everywhere because I'm incredibly self-obsessed. Who knows? Who cares? I've got Doctor Who and twenty crap pages to read, on this most restful Sunday.

But...and I will say this final note. In this play and in all these other various aspects of life, when you witness loss, you inevitably witness love. Oftentimes in surprisingly overwhelming amounts. So on this fake empty holiday, I wish you all the love in the world, and the gentle reminder that it will follow you everywhere, and will stand in the shadow of nothing, not even the greatest loss. You just need to look for it.

Narrative Loyalists

2010-01-10T16:22:00.000-08:00

There is little else that inspires such rage over such seeming triviality as narrative betrayal. Think of the parent and child, lying together in story-time shortly before slumber, only for the parent, either jokingly or by mistake, makes a slip. We never lose the tantrum-ic impulse to immediately swell with rage and cry: 'No! That's not how the story goes!'

It harks back to an existential primal fear. Life, after all, is unpredictable. We experience loss, hurt, irritation, surprises and dangerous risks at every turn. But life is allowed to behave like that. Life is life. And although we may experience denial or our own rage at life for being unfair or unpredictable, it is a far more complicated and mature feeling than that when we witness a story that takes a wrong turn into the unpredictable, breaking from the routine. 'No!' we cry, 'That's not how the story goes!' The effect can be traumatic.

There are those odd narratives, those narratives that belong to gossip magazines, of real life turned into a fictional narrative. The grief people feel for people they don't know is very real. Think of Princess Diana, or more recently Michael Jackson, the world-interest in Paul McCartney's divorce proceedings, or Heath Ledger. People burst into tears, buy movies, CD's and books commemorating these complete strangers because we are involuntarily linked to their narrative, and we try, desperately to make sense of it or to change it. 'No!' we cry, watching a plane collide with the World Trade Centre, seeing the doctor's report on any number of over-drugged celebrities, watching Rove's private grief at his young deceased wife. 'That's not how the story goes!'

This is the dangerous response that film-makers risk when daring to take on an adaptation. I must say, I've never really felt this particular sting before. In my mind, as a writer, I give them a fair bit of leniency. A lot, really. It's the same story, I figure, but two different versions. One doesn't corrupt the other. This was the line that gets me through the absolute poo that is most of the Harry Potter films.

It's an extremely difficult task, and one that has led to an absolute golden rule among my circle of friends: always, always, always read the book FIRST. Then see the film. The book, after all, is a lengthier, lovelier and overall healthier pastime anyway (at least in my mind). Not that the medium of film isn't, in it's own way, brilliant and life-changing, but books have always been where it begins for me. This golden rule has meant a few very satisfying trips to the cinema - The Lord of The Rings, Watchmen and the original Winnie The Pooh film stick in mind as particularly good adaptations. Not so good are the afore-mentioned Harry Potter films, The Time-Traveller's Wife, the countless spin-offs of Winnie The Pooh that came after the initial film and, most recently (yesterday) The Lovely Bones.

As I have said, I have generally not felt the austere anger that grows from narrative betrayal. But I'm upset at this film. As the credits rolled, and Peter Jackson's once promising name faded up onto the screen, I wanted to stand shout: 'No! That's not how the story goes!'

Here's my beef, and I'll keep it short in order to not bore you. The book, in it's plot, is not precisely fantastic. What Sebold does so well is twofold: take an interesting and beautiful concept and make it real, and create a web of very interesting, relatable, knowable characters. Peter Jackson would be the best director for such a piece, yes? The Lord Of The Rings was bristling with wonderful characters and unique concepts, and he managed to translate it to the screen with Oscar-winning glory. Well, it's a shame, for the amount that was (I think needlessly) sacrificed to get this relatively short book to the screen means that I left the cinema crying 'No!...' well, you know...

This adaptation, along with the other series of disappointing translations that have popped up makes me absolutely cringe when thinking of the upcoming Eat, Pray, Love and Cloudstreet film adaptations. Two of my absolutely favourite books. I don't think I want to see them.

What irritates me further is that our previously upstanding golden rule failed me on this (the Lovely Bones) count, because reading the book first meant I couldn't enjoy the film as much as if I hadn't read it. Don't get me wrong: this is a good film. An enjoyable, suspenseful, beautiful, interesting piece. I just don't think it's a good adaptation.

I made a mistake that is the most human mistake of all. I expected, and imagined too much. I expected Peter Jackson to do justice to the work. We expect golden celebrities to have golden lives and keep on living. We expect our days to go without stubbing our toe or spilling the milk or having to mop the floor. But what use is it in getting irritated and angry? One just has to sit and enjoy. And I found myself unable to do that last evening, trapped in the movie theatre, silently sighing and crossing my arms, turning to my friend who had also read the book and shaking our heads in disgust. On the other side of me sat my other companion, who had not read the book, weeping and blown away by the beauty of the film.

Just accept with love what comes to you. That's the lesson we've learnt today, boys and girls.

Oh, and if you're going to adapt a book into a film, make it many decades after the book was written, to provide some distance - like Sherlock Holmes. (Awesome film).

Oh, and don't read the book, and IMMEDIATELY afterwards see the film. No no. Dissatisfaction will ensue.

Oh, but above all accept with love, blah blah.

Furious Angels

2010-01-07T04:43:00.001-08:00

Oh! And what I MEANT to blog about was the new play I've been working on called Furious Angels. Become our fan on facebook, or follow us on Twitter @f_angels_metro.

Or visit our blog at www.furiousangelscdt.wordpress.com

I really think you should ;-) We're going to have lots of web fun as we head into production, trust me

RUN!

2010-01-07T04:28:00.000-08:00

One week of running has meant the following:

Disappointment from compassionate corner as it has not been consistent in it's revelations of human love
Weird skin things happening to my toes
Equal parts of 'I'm friggin awesome' to 'I can't friggin' breathe'
Reached my 30 minute target and have exceeded it
Have had clearer mind and disposition
Have started being one of those annoying people that 'run'
Have created playlists of songs that include things only runners listen to (outside of dance parties) like Black Eyed Peas and other misc. electronica
Have been very tired in the evenings and have slept better
Have lost my appetite for crap food

I have odd fluctuations of how well I do based on what seems to be the pure randomness of my biological system. Two days ago I ran for 45 minutes and wanted to do more. Today, it was a pain to get to 15.

And my ankle's going weird. That can't be good, right? Am I going to start having to stretch it randomly and then say 'ahhh, running injury' to people? Cos that would be awesome.

But even with such perky bonuses I'm still undecided on the whole 'healthy lifestyle' thing. Only the good die young right? And are we honestly all that worried about living that long anyway? I don't smoke, haven't drunk for over a fortnight, am now running everyday and eating lots of green things. I feel brighter, clearer and calmer. Does that mean happier? Does that mean, in the end, more fulfilled? Is that any better than any other lifestyle choice I could make?

Am I thinking about this too much? Yep.

But hey, running gives you time for thinking, even if it is big existential questions while listening to Black Eyed Peas. Your mind tends to go like 'even if this makes me live longer, do I really WANT to bother my children as I approach a century old? And tonight IS going to be a good good night.'

...9....10...

2009-12-31T11:57:00.000-08:00

21 hours ago, I woke late. Around 9. I read. Hundred pages away from the end of The Lovely Bones and the whole experience was a joy.

It was to be my first day alone in quite sometime so I enjoyed the simplicity of the morning: reading, breakfast, some television. Then I did my first silly thing for the day. I decided that in six months time I would run a marathon.

I get Men's Health (the magazine) one month out of every three. Such spontaneous supermarket purchases usually result in some kind of half-arsed empty resolution. But this one has a certain weight to it.

Let's start by saying I'm an excellent walker. Walk everywhere, happily, and often do. And I've even broken out the running shoes at random intervals and kept up a regular schedule for a week, maybe more, at times. I enjoy it. What stops me is boredom, really. And no goal. Well now I have one. A marathon.

There are training guides all over the net. I picked one suitable to my experience level, and I began.

Task of today: run at an 'easy' pace for 30 mins. Easy means you should be able to have a conversation while you run. Running for that period of time doesn't mean I'm able to talk after the first five minutes, but, anyway, off we go.

It's a rookie mistake. Set your goals too high. I picked a training plan for a guy who'd already run a half-marathon and was looking to get ready for a marathon in 10 weeks. 30 minutes at an easy pace? Please, I'd be dead.

But, never underestimate the ability to surprise yourself. I put the iPod on, found the audiobook, set an alarm for 30 minutes and ran.

No kidding, it was hard. But once you get into a groove and don't really think about it, it's ok. In fact, you have these moments where your mind goes dead. It's quite nice. I thought several times of stopping but trundled on. At a corner, I was motivated by a Ford that passed filled with girls, high on the promise of NYE, and one in particular who hung out the passenger side window and whistled at me, immediately bursting into giggles and whipping back inside the car. That kept me going for another few minutes. But without even thinking about it, I broke into a walk at the 20 minute mark. It took me a couple of minutes to realise: hang on, I've stopped running. My body just said 'no'. So, I listened carefully and returned home, walking, having completed two thirds of my goal, which I decided I was quite happy with. I was slick with sweat but it was the sweat of having done something, and I felt, even if I did crap all for the rest of the day, I had spent 20 worthwhile minutes running.

NYE was to be a low-key affair this time around. Dash over to a friends joint at 6pm for ritual board games. With my bestie and I deciding to leave at 10pm and opt for her place to watch TV, as we were both tired. (Young people today, I dunno...) My second stupid mistake of the day? Drinking 3 glasses of coke around the game board table. I know I'm a soft pansy but I swear to God, I'm stupidly sensitive to caffeine. ZING! (Am staying dry currently for other reasons I shan't go into, otherwise I would've had alcohol to counter-effect the zingness.)

Back at my home home, housemates were having a party, so it was decided that I would sleep at bestie's in a quieter environment. But by the time I arrived at bestie's the tiredness had worn off and was replaced by a definite feeling of wakefulness. I wrote madly for a few hours and finally went to bed at 2:15 am, passing into the new year with little incident.

Drifting through the window came the trickle of neighbourhood noise: a young couple playing music and talking loudly. I don't know if them, the coke, or just my brain were to blame for being awake, but I was. And an hour and a half later, I got up and decided to leave for home, considering it pointless to stay.

Summer days really are long. It's been ages since I've been outdoors at 4 in the morning and the sky was surprisingly light. I make my way in a state of wakeful early morning calm to a 24 hour McDonald's that absolutely bustling with activity. Cabs are everywhere, and there's a thick line of people. I'm hankering for a Bacon and Egg something or other and my wish is fulfilled. Yum.

My drive home was accompanied by such an odd discussion on the radio that it bears mentioning: a panel of philosophers/scientists contemplating the theory of quantum physics and multiverses. Apparently, somehow, we will always survive whatever is going on simply through the act of perceiving it or some such thing. I was unsure if it was pretentious, profound, or in anyway impacted upon my lack Bacon and Egg McMuffin, but I did wonder whether I was asleep in some other universe.

The streets were quiet, but I pulled up outside my house at around 4:30 and stepped outside into dull morning air and encountered the most remarkable thing: absolute stillness. The city was silent. Save for the occasional passing car or drunks meandering home, it was as quiet as I'd ever heard it. The birdsong was marvellous: dozens of little beings singing for joy, unheard by sleeping ears.

Still wide awake, I sat in the backyard, getting bitten by mozzies, watching the sky change colour and listening to the birds and the quiet. I decided to read but found myself restless. I wanted to run.

So I did. I didn't set myself a goal but was surprised that I went straight on for 10 mins before I gave in, feeling my stomach tremble but ultimately settle down. No iPod this time, just the emptiness of the streets. I was the only jogger, but there were signs of life everywhere: three puddles of vomit I artfully dodged along the park pathway, a crow with clear blue eyes that looked straight at me, a man stumbling, dressed in black, looking a crow himself, on his way home. And, at the same corner where the Ford had whistled at me over twelve hours before, a group of boys, no more than 16 happily yelled out: Happy New Years Bro! I waved my hand in greeting and they waved back, such a pleasant exchange that it kept me running for another four minutes. I shall rename that spot compassionate corner.

By the time I got back home, it felt like proper daylight and it was 530. I had done a 30 minute run, just with an 18 hour rest. I ran 4.5 k's in total. Not bad for me at all.

I'm still awake, but will try sleep again now. (It's 6:23 am)

Happy new year. Enjoy the number ten.

James Cameron has my career

2009-12-16T04:47:00.000-08:00

Every so often (I'm going to go with once a decade, roughly) a blockbuster is produced that is stupidly big and defining for a generation. What's on this list is debatable, I suppose, but for me it includes Lord of the Rings, The Matrix and further back Star Wars. (Don't even talk to me on Twilight or Harry Potter. For starter's these are far more child-aimed, and they're both books first. And yes, obviously Lord of The Rings was a book first but the movie was produced decades after the fact so...HA. Yeah.)

So does Avatar belong to this race of enormous sci-fi/fantasy films that no other genre can hope to meet in terms of epic-ness? Yep. Probably.

A group of very enthusiastic friends (I was among the least enthusiastic for no particular reason), trucked on down to the Gold Coast this evening to watch it in magnificent 3D (anything else you wanna murder video star? You've now killed radio, theatre and reality).

It's exactly what you expect it to be in all it's glossy enormous wonder. The difference between it and the afore-mentioned films is that it actually features some quite decent acting. The premise is sound, the script is well-written, the design and technology is jaw-dropping.

But in terms of story, which is, I'm sorry, what I really look at, it's the hero's tale pretty much to a t. Tried and true being two t's that are terrifically terribly true in this tase. (Or case, whatever) It works, no doubt about it.

The audience that this will have the most affect on, however, is the 13 & 14 year olds. This is their Matrix - their birth into something extraordinary and mind-blowing. It's generation defining. It's pop culture on crack.

Meanwhile - 3D films are awesome, and I'm STUPIDLY excited about seeing Toy Story 1 & 2 as a double feature in 3D - how friggin' cool would that be?

Bit weird that I get that excited about children's films? Yeah, whatever.

Now, I'm going to tell you a little secret. You need to take this very seriously. It's summer, there's cricket on and you need a summer read, right?

I'm now re-reading my FAVOURITE book of all time. And you must read it too.

Cloudstreet by Tim Winton

Now now now, I can see you just shrugging that off. Pretend like Oprah said it. Or whoever works for you.

Seriously. Do. It.

Ahhh, more blogging madness soon! Stay tuned.

Shock and Outrage

2009-12-09T13:06:00.000-08:00

The jury's still out for me on shock value television. I can't really think of a time when I was watching something and was shocked, outraged or offended. I don't think it's ever really happened.

This point of discussion comes from seeing the final episode of John Safran's Race Relations last night in which he crucifies himself. I haven't watched all of the series, but managed to catch most episodes, only missing out on one or two.

I very much enjoyed Safran's previous television comedy John Safran versus God. There's no doubt in my mind that Safran is an intelligent and daring television maker. He is also someone that I am absolutely sure has a different (although not too much) personality off-screen.

I watched the crucifixion last night thinking I would be shocked, but wasn't. The hardest thing to witness was the relentless beating of Safran, and his reaction to the pain. I felt not a drop of sympathy, however, as he had consciously made a decision to do this to himself. So it all ended up feeling a bit silly.

This is in deep contrast to the final episode of the God series, where Safran attends an evangelical Christian church and is apparently given an exorcism. This was far more fascinating and humanising because Safran quite clearly didn't expect it. It was also deeply disturbing, as it revealed something fascinating about the Christian culture that had remained somewhat unexplored.

What's obvious, of course, is that Safran is not a comedian. And while the shows may be marketed as comedy, they certainly shouldn't be reviewed in such a light. They are documentary films. And when they're viewed as such, they're quite lacking. They are entirely propelled by Safran's own inane premises and not based in any kind of truth. So surely that makes it a comedy? Well no. Because then it would have to be funny.

Perhaps that's my biggest gripe. The series wasn't funny. I can't remember really laughing once. I cringed several times. Lots of times, actually. But it failed to provide the biting comic insight that's so evident in Safran's peers: Chris Lilley, and to another extent Sacha Baron Cohen.

What these other two provide is a a wonderfully rich comic platform that cuts straight to a deeper meaning and societal insight. Borat and Bruno manage to do this and sit playfully on the border between good taste and stupidity, but always land safely within the realms of comedy with a message that Safran seems to be aiming for but continuously misses.

So I'll be deeply interested to see what Safran does next. Perhaps, having gone so far in one direction, he will evolve into something completely different. Remains to be seen...

For those of you hanging out for another blog about Shakespeare or about my other projects, then this will no longer be the place where you can read about them. In just over a week, a new blog will be launched for the Shakespeare project.

In the meantime, you can hop on board my latest project called 'The Sex Play', a co-written piece with Claire Christian about the adult industry. You can follow us on Twitter: @thesexplay, become a fan of us on facebook (the sex play) and find our blog at http://thesexplay.wordpress.com.

Have a brilliant day

Questions

2009-12-01T03:20:00.001-08:00

Is socialinterview the start of something truly monolithic and evil?

After how many uses should one wash a towel?

How much money is ok to spend on an iphone app?

When exercising, what level of resistance to pain is healthy self-awarness, and how close is that level to the level of just being lazy?

What should I be more excited/scared of - Oprah quitting her show, or Oprah creating an entire television network?

Is a film ever ever ever going to be as good as the book? Shouldn't we stop trying?

What's the right ratio of concerned and apathy about political squabbles like the leadership of the Liberal party?

Why don't you comment more? (Ps, thank you those who commented!)

Why would I paint Finn in that last post as a grumpy old man when actually he's a lovely lovely cat?

Has anyone ever died from heatstroke brought on from having a cup of tea in the middle of a hot day? Is there a chance that myself or my grandmother could die from such a thing?

Why is Fountain BBQ Sauce so much better than any other BBQ sauce?

When was the last time you watched a film on television? Did it leave you feeling empty and consistently interrupted? No? Just me?

How can the same people that say 'hot enough for you?' constantly not believe in climate change?

How much bad food can I pass off as ok because I'm young?

Who decided kisses were signed with an x?

Finn and the art of bulk book consumption

2009-11-29T15:25:00.001-08:00

I've kind of inherited a cat. No, that's wrong. I moved into a house that has a cat. I have a cat for a roommate. Finn is to be taken very seriously. He is commanding, austere, and a slut. He is not territorial at all, he is very submissive. He looks at you with this kind of depressed groan - 'Another fucking day', he says to me. And then rolls over for a pat on his stomach.

He has certain spots that he likes to chill in, but 'chill' is perhaps the wrong word. In the height of Brisbane summer heat, he will choose a thick rug to lie on, look up at you and meow. 'Make yourself useful please - turn the fuckin' fan on would you?' I reprimand Finn for his language but he just rolls over with a groan. I point out to him he wouldn't need the fan if he just moved to the bathroom tiles or a cooler spot. He turns his head, sighs, rolls his eyes. 'Whatever.' He goes back to sleep.

Do you know that thing you get when you're surprised by how much energy you have and how small amount of sleep you actually need on a relatively small amount of food? And you know how you quickly get over that and crash and burn? Well I'm in the former right now, destined for the latter. Wired, would be the word. Wired. On research, on work, on everything.

This weekend was the reading and completion of: Comedy of Errors, Henry V, Julius Caesar, The Book Thief and The Little Stranger. I could review each of these, but I shan't, fearing that in attempting to pay each of them respect I would in fact give none to any of them. But you should definitely read The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. Great book.

Timon of Athens

2009-11-26T15:40:00.000-08:00

...was not nearly as poor as I expected it to be. Certainly not as arduous as Henry IV Part 2. There's no doubt about it though, the structure is quite arbitrary and the ending is plain bizarre. Many critics have apparently theorised that Timon of Athens was actually co-written with somebody, and is in complete. The play is surrounded by mystery: no one knows when it was written, early or late in Shakespeare's career, and there are little to no records of it's actual performance.

It's an odd tragedy. The death at the end seems rather random, and there are some scenes here that are laughable. Inviting your enemies round to a banquet and then serving them 'warm water', splashing the warm water in their face and running away like a child makes Timon as a character almost laughable, especially in contrast to Titus Andronicus where the enemies eat a feast made out of the meat of their kin.

Either way, I wanted to thank y'all for your comments and urge you to keep em coming. Tomorrow, Comedy of Errors.

Sequels - a tradition of mediocrity for over 400 years

2009-11-25T19:13:00.000-08:00

Why write a sequel? Why read a sequel? It's with a certain amount of sadness that I've just experienced the worst play read so far. Henry IV Part 2. Very little occurs, much of it comes across as filler, and is overall, vastly unsuccessful. The dramaturgical problem is a rookie one: the main tension of the play is backgrounded to, well...not much at all. It's just in the background.

Tomorrow, I face Timon of Athens, whose introduction claims it to be the ugly ducking of Shakespeare's tragedies, which no critic has been able to turn into a swan. Bugger.

Last night, I actually 'cracked' the play. Not Shakespeare's but my own, the on that all of this is going towards. I am secure in the plot and themes, but now need to continue in my research. Nevertheless, I am getting itchy now to begin. I'm 13 plays in, and while even 2 Henry IV held some dialogue gems, I am began to have doubts as to whether I could sustain myself over the entire trip. I quickly chide myself, get me back onto task.

My reading and processing of the plays has quickened now to a tidy pace. Once I've begun, I spend very little time meandering. I power through it. The sense of satisfaction having completed one is very fulfilling. I'll need to throw a party or something at the end of 37.

But why is this hard? And why when I tell people do I receive sympathy, or awe. And yet, for one to watch 37 hours of television, or more, perhaps racing through a series of television within a month, week, or even a weekend, receives little notice. In fact, it's common. Reading great pages of information, even from the greatest English writer who ever lived, is not only a rarity it's deemed as hard work, and unworthy of serious thought.

This thought give me enough resilience to go on, to face Timon. For just over the brink lies the greats, the golden age. The best days are yet to come.

Measuring measure

2009-11-24T19:10:00.000-08:00

I was lucky enough to see a production of Measure for Measure in Sydney with the Bell Shakespeare comedy and I've always fancied it. It's being added to the long list of comedies that mostly go ignored but I've rather enjoyed reading. Measure gets away from the cross-dressing family comedies that Shakespeare is known for and actually hosts a far more complicated discussion on morality, sex and the law. And it's a breeze to read.

That's really all I have for today. More tomorrow.

Wherefore and other surprises

2009-11-24T05:06:00.001-08:00

Romeo and Juliet is one of Shakespeare's greatest plays, but probably earns the medal for being pissed on the most times by a variety of interpretations. It's hard now to read 'wherefore art thou Romeo' with any seriousness, or without picturing a fourteen year old, voice cracking, awkwardly spewing out the lines in over-dramatic 'lover's' stance. Or, for members of my generation, difficult to form a picture in one's head that is absent of Leo DeCaprio or Claire Daines. Either way, if you can get past all of that, this is a keeper. It moves with lightning speed. Just hold your breath and go with the whole teenagers falling in love thing and go with it. Awesome.

I need to tell you about a list of awesome things that you need to check out.

Mad Men - if you haven't already watched it, do. It's fantastic. Hard to explain how it's fantastic, it's just good television.
An Education - wonderfully pleasant little English film. Warms your heart in a delightfully British way.
A Serious Man - odd Cohen brothers film. Still don't know if I recommend it, but I still think about it almost everyday, trying to sort it out.

And that's about it. I'm frightened by my schedule over the next block of time and the amount of researching/writing I have to do. As I'm researching one project, I'm writing another, and so on until June/July next year. Yes, it's AWESOME to be employed, but the next little while will be a test of my metal, there's no doubt about it.

In the coming month, please keep your eye out for more information about the play that I'm doing the Shakespeare work on. I can promise Twitter and blog fun. Yay.

Surprised myself lately by:

buying rosary beads to aid with meditation. They work. External focus. Nice one.
thinking that I knew about marketing and audience development, when I know crap all.
cooking an almost perfect lasagne for lunch in under an hour.

Rock on. Tomorrow: Measure for Measure.

Limits of Charity

2009-11-22T15:30:00.000-08:00

Hey there. I've just finished Henry IV, Part One. That sucker took me all week, and it's taken me all week to get round to writing a blog. During this week I have:

moved house
started and quit a new job
begun a new writing project
almost finished 'The Little Stranger' audiobook through travelling back and forth to Toowomba
marked 53 exams until very early in the morning
been summarily ignored for up to five hours at a time by literally thousands of people
not written a blog
not read Shakespeare

So I've been busy, but I want to talk about this job, right? I got a job with this charity. I like charity, I donate to charity, and this one had a particularly good cause. My job was to stand on the street, get people to come up to me, give them the spiel and then get them to sign up for an ABSOLUTE minimum of $20 a month and a preferred rate of $30 a month, all totally tax deductible and all totally worth it.

Am I completely comfortable with asking complete strangers for money? A week ago, I would've said no. It's for a good cause, PLUS I was so stupidly naive as to think that once people just HAD this information, about how terrible things really are, they'll be dying to sign up. Right? RIGHT?

I can't believe I was actually this optimistic about the human race. I quickly learnt after my first day that this is a difficult job. Two days I was in suburbs, and another two days I was in the city. In the suburbs, people were easier to stop, but no sign-ups. The city was like pushing shit up hill.

Four days. Twenty hours. No sign ups.

I was quickly encouraged to not present the message to them logically, but appeal to their emotional senses. I was encouraged in fact to manipulate them emotionally, to guilt them. Moreover, while I received a base wage, there were nifty bonuses for every sign up. By the end of my second week working I was expect to be reaching two sign ups a day or else face losing my job.

These are well-intentioned, incredibly nice people, who are honestly doing the right thing. But I just felt so darn dirty asking people for money. Everyone would come up with the same banal excuses: I can't afford it, I already give, etc. To which I, more often than not, would reply with an 'ok', or refer them to the website to think about it. This was my downfall.

With the offering of another writing project and facing my second week with a grand total of zero sign ups, I quit the job and felt much better for it.

Is it right to emotionally manipulate people for good? Good is subjective, but surely we can agree upon some things. Perhaps if I was working for a human rights based charity, but I was working for an environmental one. Some would argue that the actions we were calling for would've meant a loss of jobs. This wasn't true, in the long term, but certainly in the short term.

Moreover, here's the more disturbing thing: I got further with people the less information I gave them. You hit them with a big statistic and move in quickly, anything more than that and they're likely to get overwhelmed and feel powerless. We're more likely, apparently, to spend money on something we know less about.

I was coached by a man who'd been successfully with the company for four years. 'Anytime I've had a lull in this job,' he said, 'it's because I've been giving too many details.' So I was encouraged to limit my information as much as possible.

Morally dubious? No, the information was all there if they asked for it. Either way, I'm glad I'm no longer involved.

But please, next time you pass them on the street, smile. Or just have a laugh. Answer them. There's nothing more depressing than talking to no one for five hours. And if you don't give to a charity already than you probably should. I do believe that. We are so lucky. And when it's tax deductible, really, what's the big deal?

Tomorrow, Romeo and Juliet...

To be a Merry Wife of Windsor...

2009-11-11T22:00:00.000-08:00

The Merry Wives of Windsor is another in a moderately large list of Shakespeare's early comedies that are fairly obscure. The other that I've read is Two Gentlemen of Verona which I found far more entertaining than this. Although, Merry Wives has got a couple of interesting and amusing characters, including a French doctor who Shakespeare has written specifically with an accent and has lines like 'Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I am cozened; I ha' married un garcon, a boy; un paysan, by gar, a boy; it is not Anne Page; by gar, I am cozened.' (Act 5, Scene 5) Also in this play is John Falstaff, an odd anti-hero type who's quite the gentlemen slut.

Anyway, I think I'll take a break tomorrow as I've got a stacked timetable and don't think I'll be able to fit a play in. For those that have asked, I'm reading a comedy, history, tragedy, in the order that they were set out in the 1st Folio - which seems to be a pretty random order, but there you go. So next up is The First Part of Henry The Fourth followed by Romeo and Juliet. By the end of next week I'll be riding through the greatest hits King Lear, Othello, Macbeth, Hamlet, Comedy of Errors, Mid-Summer Night's Dream, Twelfth Night etc.

Am attending a lot of shows this week of the latest batch of graduates from USQ and am so far very pleased with the results. Cooked amazing chicken roast last night and managed to make the perfect cup of tea today. Life's small (but great) pleasures.

Also invested in new shoes today, as I currently have a choice between thongs, black formal shoes, and a pair of sneakers that look like they're puppets made by Jim Henson. Never liked shoe shopping, and so I do it with INTENSE speed. I'm in and out of Spendless in a flash. Opted for a pair of sneaker/cas things - black, simple. Not that stylish. But they're shoes, right? Who looks at shoes? I don't get this thing people have with shoes. I understand they're necessary, but, are they that important aesthetically? Swear to God, I've never looked at anyone's shoes. Certainly never judged anyone by their shoes. Should I? Have I missed a memo?

P.S. Finn's following everyone!! YAY FINN!!!

Titus and Sleepy-est

2009-11-10T21:48:00.000-08:00

Friends, have just finished Titus Andronicus and yesterday King Richard The Second. And I gotta say, I'm tired. Two great plays, quite enjoyable, but these things slice about three hours outta my day. I was surprised when talking to a university professor about the project, who is Toowoomba's resident Shakespeare genius, that he laughed at the idea. He, indeed, had never read the Complete Works - a handful of the plays have never passed underneath his glance. He has no intention of following this up, either. He simply doesn't have the time.

And I'm also beginning to wonder whether simply being able to say 'I've read the Complete Works' is the type of thing I want to say. I fear I'll be rewarded with the adult social circle equivalent of being beaten up in the playground for my trivial nerdom.

But of course, there is a bigger task at hand than just plain nerdom. I am finding jewels of dialogue here that are fitting in with my desired outline for the play, and at the same time shifting it, providing it's own ideas and comments for me to react to. Slowly, this character's speech is surfacing. It is exciting.

It also lightens your day, I have to say. You feel like you've had a really healthy meal after reading a Shakespeare play: it's good for you. And I, as a young and growing man, think it's entirely appropriate. I think of my own father devouring the entire works of Steinbeck when he was my age. I think of the many countries in which young men are enforced to undertake some kind of military service for a few years before becoming an adult citizen. Perhaps reading the complete works of Shakespeare, or some other author, should be enforced as a similar rite of passage. Shakespeare teaches on politics, on love, on marriage, on grief, on death, on existential angst - he has it all. And probably deals with it a far healthier way than the military. (Not that I would know, as I'm a complete wuss.)

So I'm tired, but I'm continuing...6 down, 31 to go. And then there's the sonnets...

A Gentleman of Verona

2009-11-09T00:45:00.000-08:00

Previously on David's stupidly ambitious...I create a character that can only speak direct Shakespeare quotes. David now commits to reading the Complete Works of Shakespeare. A week in, I've read four plays.

Last night and this morning, as promised, I read The Two Gentlemen of Verona which I have to say is one of the more delightful discoveries so far. A simple early comedy that rolls along in love triangle style nicely, including one of the funnier clowns: Speed, who has some of the best nonsense lines.

This afternoon, I sat down to catalogue all the lines I've hi-lighted to be saved as pieces of dialogue for this character. Three hours and seventeen pages later, I feel overwhelmed and tired. So I have treated myself to an Officeworks raid to replenish my hi-lighter stocks. It has given me a marvellous little lift. Yay hi-lighter! Including the nifty little pen (photo above) that has stick notes IN IT. Wonders of technology.

On another track - I was listening to the radio today and bombarded by a Triple J offensive language warning and was suddenly quite angry. This is why: Shakespeare is pretty filthy, right? Violent, sex, plenty of cursing, references to whores and pestilence and mad sex and x y z. He's considered the most beautiful writer ever. So clearly it isn't the meaning of the words that we find offensive, it's the words themselves: fuck, shit. etc.

Are we honestly so threatened by these terms? What utter silliness. Do not hold our language back! If people wish to curse, curse. Most parents handle the topic of swearing now quite well: it's a grown up word because it has a grown up meaning, don't use it until you are mature. Language, like every other aspect of culture, has it's own rituals. This is a topic I feel for a much more in-depth blog, I will return to it later.

Meanwhile - King Richard The 2nd.

I'm One Of Them

2009-11-08T04:45:00.001-08:00

Currently sitting in front of a game of Risk 2210, hitting that wall of having to severely piss of people if I want to make headway in the game. I need to march into Asia, really, to make a claim and stop my dear friend from claiming the whole Eastern hemisphere for himself. This, in turn, would make me the leader of the game and the target of everyone's gaze. The eternal bothering question: to risk standing out, or to remain content in mediocrity? I think we all know the answer to THAT one.

Mediocrity it is.

Speaking of mediocrity, have achieved a lot of little over my weekend, but, hey, I'm happy with that, so get off my back, ok? Have walked, have read, and have become incredibly engrossed in Guitar Hero 5, and am beginning to wonder why I care so much at perfecting my skills with a plastic guitar but have surprisingly little patience for the real thing. The plastic comes with flashing bright colours, that's why, and the illusion that I'm Paul McCartney or some such. Can a real guitar give me any of that? No. What does it give me? Talent and a potentially valuable skill? No flashing bright colours. Humph. No thanks.

Finished Say You're One Of Them yesterday, the latest offering from Oprah's Book Club. Collection of short stories. They're all centred around African children and gets to the heart of the really appalling stuff. The Islam/Christian conflict, the Rwandan genocides, child prostitution, child smuggling, etc. With only one exception, ('Luxurious Hearses' was gripping but less effective) each story is absolutely gut-wrenching. This is terrific storytelling about absolutely horrible stuff. It's down to earth African stories, absent of Bono glamour or a weepy string soundtrack. Akpan doesn't pause for breath or any sentimentality, which is what makes the book a success. I recommend it. Plus short stories are wonderfully easy and satisfying to read.

Have realised that 3 Shakespeare plays a week isn't enough for what I want to do, and am now embarking on an even more ambitious quest: a play a day. Wish me luck. This week also involves: packing, a training day for a new job, seeing Toy Symphony, and did I mention?... a Shakespeare play everyday.

(A very warm welcome to the blog's new follower as well. Glad to have you aboard, Paul :-))

By the sea

2009-11-06T03:26:00.001-08:00

The rains came today. Drizzle mostly. Little silver slivers of liquid meandering out of the sky, sharply silencing all the sound previously surrounding us in our little home, which in it's elderly state immediately wets itself. One feels damp. Nevertheless, the affect is pleasant, and after a much needed sleep in I decide to claim Friday a day off, looking ahead at a very busy next seven days.

So I spent my day fairly lazily: tidying up the house, grocery shopping, and more television than I've watched in a long time. But I should tell you about a book I finished 'reading' yesterday. I've re-joined Audible, which I see as a direct investment in the protection of my life, battling driver fatigue as I zoom back and forth down the mountain. And, so far, it's worked.

I bought Dave Egger's 'Zeitoun' because I'm a fan of his early work. 'A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius' and 'You Shall Know Our Velocity'. He also edits 'McSweeney's', a literary journal whose uniqueness and prestige is second to none. He also happened to co-write the screenplay to 'Where The Wild Things Are'.

'Zeitoun' follows a similar path to Egger's last novel 'What Is The What', both differing fairly substantially from his earlier novels. I'm not a fan of this later stuff as the earlier ones. Nevertheless, 'Zeitoun' is a hearty achievement. Egger's is deeply interested in human rights, and 'Zeitoun' tells the troubling story of a Muslim Hurricane Katrina survivor. Eggers chronicle of the family is extraordinary. Although it doesn't in and of itself represent any great literary prestige. Eggers refrains from ever indulging in poetry that made his earlier work so startling. Instead, the story, and it's truth, stands alone.

In some parts, however, Eggers goes a bit heavy-handed. To emphasise the tragedy of the situation he can go a bit...Hollywood. I do feel however, this may be influenced by the narration on the audiobook, read in a broad American accent and, I have to say, not very well. He seems to not get the beat of Egger's tone quite right.

It interests me that the book is classified as fiction, and although the book claims to be a near verbatim account of the events (there are even pictures in the print version), and I wonder whose decision this classification was: Eggers? The subjects of the novel? The publisher?

One feels good after reading this because you've learnt about Hurricane Katrina, and you should read it for this very reason. This is disturbing on a political guttural level, and reveals something of Western culture that should be read as a warning. Bluntly, this book should be read.

To bed. I sit on a mattress in the study underneath a cosy doona, with rain outside. I live like a king.

Bull! Red, that is...

2009-11-05T06:02:00.000-08:00

So. Am writing this just past midnight after waking up at 5am and driving home this evening in mild rain. But I have a tale to tell.

I am a stupid man. I say that now. Reader, dear reader, you need to forgive my stupidity. Why am I stupid? Well, that's sweet of you to ask. Here's the deal. I didn't pay my car registration. It was lonnngg overdue. It wasn't deliberate. It was, as I say, a result of me being a stupid man. And so I was pulled over by the police, and told to go to court. In the criminal justice system, something something, two equally important groups, something heinous something these are their stories - ding ding.

They ask you to appear at 830 in the morning, but as to when in the day your case will be called is pretty much a lottery. Today was one of those days I was thankful for having a surname starting with 'b', as I was whisked into the first morning session, where I was promptly given a case file number (5) by a woman in a Salvation Army Officer uniform. (?)

And then into the courtroom. A small affair in green and looking like generic government Howard era buildings do - bland. I go in with a bunch of other crims - representing every walk of life, although I must say now, looking back, the men far outweighed the women. You go up to your police prosecutor and give your plea. For me, guilty. And then we sit, and wait for the judge to appear.

She is running late, apparently. We sit in silence. The police prosecutor tells us all to turn off our phones and then I spy her playing something on her iphone while waiting for the judge to rock up. The room is silent. There's no reason why we can't talk but it's just the atmosphere that shuts us up. The room is so completely dry of a sense of humour that I'm desperate for someone to fart or tell a knock knock joke. No one's laughing. There's no music either - not even a crap radio station or bland classical stuff. This is a serious place. And we're serious people that run late and play with our iphones.

She enters, and we stand and the little pantomime begins. The regular players: the prosecutor, the bailiff, and those that have found lawyers, run through their lines as if in ritual, they do this everyday, but they do it because it's a formality, so much of this is a formality. Eventually, sometime before ten, my case is called. Up I go, quizzed about my crime, to which I tug my forelock and am very apologetic and the judge hands down a surprisingly fair fine and I'm free. How about that?

So that was my little adventure. I think this means I'm quite tough now. I'm thinking about getting a tattoo or something. Perhaps a skull or a dragon, or a reminder of when my rego's due. Perhaps I need to start wearing jeans all the time and never laugh - perhaps that's what society is supposed to be built on.

Anyway - saw Time Traveller's Wife afterwards for a bit of fun - DEFINITELY read the book and see the film second, or just avoid the film altogether. Disappointing. Also almost finished Coriolanus - a violent little tragedy made up of men snarling at each other a lot. It's nice. I like it. Reading Shakespeare puts an entire different spin on your day - suddenly language means something, and, in turn, life is made all the more delicate.

Night.

His Majesty King John

2009-11-03T19:36:00.001-08:00

So. Am ferociously warm today (took me like eight go's to spell ferociously then, brain melting), and am trying to get as much work done as possible, despite the heat and the complete lack of air-conditioning in my soon not-to-be house.

I spent a portion of my morning reading King John, by Mr. Shakespeare. I'm less connected with the histories, and was interested to read Shakespeare's 'bad play'. No doubt about it, in terms of story, it's a bit of a mess, but the language is still there and wonderful. I was surprised to learn: 'To gild refined gold, to paint the lily...' came from King John. It's a pretty good read, I gotta say, and if this was his worst, than he deserves the title of genius. I am actually falling for the bard. How utterly pretentious and yuck of me. Mind you, this is only the second play. Tragedy of Coriolanus next - another lesser-known one.

Anyway, yes, all very hot and unpleasant. Would like a pool please - and a refreshing drink with ice cubes that go clink clink and the liquid to be the colour of summer, bright and unnatural, with condensation all around the surface of the glass and once it is all in you and the glass empty you feel full and cold in your stomach. Nice.

All my plans are in limbo at the moment and waiting to fall: waiting to hear back about house (both the one I am moving to and the one I am moving from), waiting to hear about job, waiting waiting. So I may as well enjoy the limbo, because goodness knows I'll be complaining about the chaos when it gets here. Or hopefully enjoying it. Yes - back to Shakespeare.

Going to court tomorrow. Shall hopefully have an interesting post for you then.

Random acts of defiance

2009-11-03T03:37:00.000-08:00

I have trouble ironing. We have an iron in this house, but not an ironing board. And so any shirt I attempt to iron, usually takes about three or four attempts. Why not just buy an ironing board? Because an ironing board costs quite a few little dollars more than it should, and I'm not about to support that kind of corporate greed. This is how these corporations work - make us think we need these things and we simple have to buy them. Wrong. We don't need an ironing board. Watch me.

And so this little act of defiance turns into an unnecessarily long act of defiance and I feel no superiority whatsoever afterwards. I don't even get the satisfying 'ahhhh' type warmth from a freshly ironed shirt, because by the time it's done I don't care anymore, and some parts are wet and others are warm, and other bits are just normal. So I should really just buy an ironing board.

My glasses broke. I still attempt to surf the net and blog anyway. I have a headache.

I had to jumpstart the van today. Even though I've now done this a couple of times, I knew that I didn't really know what I was doing, but I chose to be defiant. I can do it. Watch me. Yes I can. This ended with some sparks and a call to RACQ. I could've died. I blame Obama. No I can't.

Won a small victory today on behalf of independent theatre. Charmed my way into a job. Wrote a blog while blind. I'm defiant where it counts, too.

My life is currently being made brighter by the latest John Mayer single 'Who Says'. Nice work, Mr. Mayer.

Testing the Tempest

2009-10-31T23:28:00.000-07:00

So, I just read 'The Tempest'. I've read it once before and seen it in production. Basically, this band of aristocrats are shipwrecked on a small island by Prospero, a banished Duke with magical powers who uses the spirit of Ariel and others to wreak havoc. A marriage and forgiveness ensues.

This is one of Shakespeare's last plays, and, as with any Shakespeare, a bucketload of scholarly thought and discussion about this that and the other. The Tempest is arguably a work of post-colonialism but I won't bore you with that.

I'll say simply that I enjoyed it. It's one of the few of Shakespeare's plays where the plot is entirely original. In saying that though, it's a comedy, so it lacks the epic nature of the big headliners but is a pleasant, light tale. The final monologue is possibly one of my favourites and the scene in act four where spirits arise to bless a marriage is particularly fanciful.

I'm not so good with the histories, and I'm interested to read what 'bad Shakespeare' is like, so next: King John.

Revelling in Revelations

2009-10-31T17:16:00.000-07:00

So, for a project whose details I won't go into, I've now committed myself, through an act of somewhat lunacy, to a steaming pile of research which includes reading the Complete Works Of Shakespeare and The Bible.

So, on a gentle Sunday morning, I decided to begin to lick the tip of the iceberg by reading 'The Book of Revelations.'

Now that's some crazy shit. Revelations is set out as a series of visions occurring to the narrator who calls himself 'John'. What's surprising is that this is surrealist literature LIGHTYEARS ahead of it's time. Wikipedia tells me it's estimated time of writing was somewhere late in the first century. Among the vast variety of symbols here are evil angels, a beast, a dragon, four creatures covered in eyes 'inside and out', seven plagues, and much much more. It's a wild ride.

But what does all that symbolise? Well, hop on board a theological debate that's lasted now about 2000 years. But one thing is for certain: Revelation isn't that popular. Martin Luther once dismissed it as unimportant, as did Thomas Jefferson saying it was the ravings of a mad lunatic. (Again, wikipedia, don't quote me.)

And, I must admit, it's hard to read it believing it has any weight. A picture comes to mind of a guy who's sniffed a bit too much 'incense' and had a vision. I'm not kidding, it sounds like an LSD trip. If someone were to write this today, it would be deemed the work of an insane idiot.

The tone of the whole piece is one of death, destruction, and above all judgement. There's something quite guttural in the way you respond to this, or at least the way I responded to it: there's fear. Not that one believes that any of this is truth, but simply that the images are so strange, and the destruction so wide that it is frightening to believe so many consider this to be truth.

Odd note to leave the Bible on. The joyful and more loving New Testament seems to make up for all it's lack of judgement in this book, where Jesus makes the smallest of cameos.

Now, I think it's time for 'The Tempest'. I wonder how long this will last.

Time Traveler's Wife: A Review

2009-10-28T05:17:00.000-07:00

I was warned about this. I have only just put down The Time Traveler's Wife, after completing it after several days of obsessive reading. I'm left devastated from an intense experience. My friends who had read it previous warned me of tears, and I should say that these are (predictably) absent for me, but I'm shaken by the story.

I didn't expect much. It's a best seller, so I was able to pick it up cheap at BIG W. What did I have to lose? Having seen the trailer for the film, I was expecting something fairly vacuous with a potentially interesting premise. My friend demanded it was not that at all, and this was soon confirmed.

It is extraordinarily good (almost) science-fiction. Wonderfully human, clever and unpredictable. The first half sets up the premise: Henry, a man born with a genetic disorder that means he can flip through time at any moment. Niffenegger (the writer, this is her first novel) takes a risk here, but it pays off. We learn so little of the disorder, Niffenegger doesn't even attempt to explain it, really, at all. We just go with this major leap of faith. But because everything else in the book is so real, it doesn't seem much of a jump at all. This exposition in the first half, the rules and the weird beginnings of this love between him and his wife is original and entertaining.

This turns into, quickly, a more sombre vigil on longing, desire and absence. It actually manages to express it quite profoundly. It will stay with me, no doubt, as I process the layers of metaphor and theme that are so carefully constructed. I highly recommend it. I'm extremely cynical about the film. This is based on the trailer alone. As always, read the book before you see it.

Saturday morning trickle

2009-10-23T16:48:00.000-07:00

The best gift I've possibly ever given myself is the decision to unplug the TV from the antenna about two weeks ago. It had several benefits. The first was that the lounge room was instantly nicer to be in and looked bigger. The second was that I no longer felt as though I was wasting my life. The TV has moved into the study. So it's now a more conscious choice to 'watch' TV, and when I do, it's a DVD, something I specifically want to watch.

The most awesome affect, though, is the amount of reading I'm now getting done, instead of wasting time in front of pure drivel. So yesterday I finished Coetzee's 'Diary of A Bad Year' which is a pretty remarkable book, if only for the fact that it has three parallel narratives running simultaneously. (As in, literally every page is split into thirds. Exciting stuff.)

Now, I'm returning back to the flock with a blockbuster best seller - 'The Time-Traveller's Wife' and I must admit, although I've only just begun, that it's pretty exciting.

Hair cut today. Should feel lighter. Going to see Laz tonight, the first time I have in a week. Looking forward to it. Had a dream last night the producer text me to say we had a sold out final week. You, my friend, can make that dream come true. ;-)

Love, Dave

Moving

2009-10-22T17:33:00.001-07:00

Hmmm, blogger's block.

So I'm moving house. Back down to the big bad city. Certain rituals take their place: I stop paying attention to cleaning. I figure it'll get done when I move. I don't mean there's food getting super-mouldy or anything but, you know, the bathtub, the oven, the lawn. There's no substitute for temporary laziness.

I begin thinking about what my things will look like in boxes. And where are the best place to get boxes? The easiest ones to get are the fruit type boxes but they don't really have a top, and so I worry about that. Because then you can't stack them, and so you can only really do a third of what you could do in your little tiny hatchback and so you have to do three times the amounts of trips and before you know it you've spent eighteen million dollars on fuel and poisoning the atmosphere and there'll come a day when you can't feed your kids and it'll be because of those little fruit boxes, you know? This is the stuff that keeps me awake at night.

So maybe I should just give up two-thirds of my stuff. But which two-thirds? And if you're going to give up two-thirds of stuff it's really only a small step to three-quarters, and then three-quarters of my stuff is really a lot so I should just live out of a backpack, you know? Sell everything and just do that. Be hailed as a Jesus or Buddha. I'll be spiritually enlightened but with shoes and some money. And a backpack. And an iPhone.

But then I'll smell. I wonder if Jesus smelt, surely he smelt? All that walking. No deodorant. But then everyone would've smelt. So you really gotta ask yourself at what point in history did we decide that the natural odour of the human being was not nice. At what point in history did we train ourselves to think that sewerage was a yuck smell? At what point does a child learn that behaviour?

My toes seem to be always cold, is that a bad thing? Bad circulation. Bad heart. Yeah, that's bad. Rest of me is ok though, temperature wise. I have other little mini-problems though. Does everyone have those? Like little flaws in the body, little ways it doesn't work? Like I have dry skin around my fingers, my knees crack and I always, always, always end up with fluff in my belly-button at the end of the day. I don't understand how that happens.

So yeah, I'm moving.

Letter to a hairless self

2009-10-20T14:47:00.000-07:00

Dear hairless self,

You're about 11 now, and you have no idea what's coming. There's little point in warning you, but I thought I should write a letter just to give you a head's up and ask you not to freak out.

The thing is you're going to be quite hairy. I know you've been looking forward to shaving but you'll get over this pretty quickly when you realise you have to do it every morning from 14 onwards. Your legs will get hair on them before anyone else in your class, and your going to have to wear shorts and be ok with it, alright? Just take a breath and settle down.

Ok, but the cruelest joke of all is right in the middle of your face. Look, I'm sorry to have to tell you this but you're going to have a mono-brow. You're eyebrows are going to be exceedingly dominant. For your formal you'll decide to give it a wax and they'll come out ok, and you'll do it numerous other times when big events come up. Waxing doesn't hurt nearly as much as you think it's going to, and in a weird way you'll feel ok about it because girls will be quite interested and sometimes even impressed. Girls is a whole other letter.

But anyway, just thought I'd let you know. The sooner you accept it the better. Use it as a joke - self-deprecation will make up for the fact that it looks like you've got quite a fat dark caterpillar sleeping on your face.

Oh, while I'm here: always pay your car registration and don't eat KFC on a Sunday when you're 14 unless you want food poisoning.

Cheers,

Dave

The Holocaust as Children's Fiction

2009-10-19T15:54:00.001-07:00

So, over the past two days I've read 'Once' by Morris Gleitzman, a children's book easily finished in one seating if it wasn't for the relentless intensity through which the story moves.

'Once' details the story of Felix: a Jewish orphan in 1942 in Poland. Gleitzman has written about controversial topics before for children: contraception, AIDS and homosexuality, divorce, disability, etc, but none of his books, to my knowledge are quite as violent as this.

Make no mistake - this is a brilliantly written book. I just can't decide whether I'd let my children read it. When I was at the book's target audience age, I was absolutely dying to read John Marsden's 'Tomorrow When the War Began' series, but had to wait until puberty before I was granted permission.

But Gleitzman defends himself well. In an interview I heard him defend the violence by simply saying he didn't describe it. This gives the writing it's intensity and brutality that matches the subject matter, but it also leaves most of the work to the reader. 'A Nazi soldier shoot her in the back of the head.' That's pretty much as descriptive as Gleitzman gets. So the image I create in my head, influenced by years of Hollywood movies, is probably very different to that of a child. So...I guess...yes, I would let my child read it. Or would I?

Would I let them watch 'The Matrix' or fantasy violent films? I'm unsure. Either way, this is a a brilliant book and a wonderful read. I'm dashing out to buy the sequel ASAP.

What the hell is Hancock all about?

2009-10-18T02:01:00.001-07:00

Having read Tolstoy and it being a Sunday and all, I wonder down to my local Blockbuster to rent something totally vacuous and mind-numbing. My choice? Hancock. One of the top ten box office grossing films for 2008 and supposed to be an interpretation on the modern superhero film.

Ok, so what the hell is it about? It changes plot halfway through, provides no to little background information on what the hell the plot is and...grrrr. Frustration. Lame film.

Hot cast, awesome people, but it's just....like, what? Bad writing. Bad. I know I'm being about as articulate as the film but I achieved my goal: my brain is numbed. Don't watch it.

Anna Banana

2009-10-17T22:22:00.000-07:00

So, I've just achieved something that I feel quite proud of. I finished a Tolstoy novel. How about that? All up, it would've taken me well over a month or so, but Anna Karenina is now officially read. All 900 pages of it. Ahhhh.

I'm unsure as to why I was drawn to the novel in the first place. I've had a little crush this year on Russian literature and been intrigued by their history. A couple of years ago I ambitiously set out to read War & Peace, but got lost before the first hundred pages.

Anna Karenina, is comparatively, a much much easier novel to read. However, it's not easy. What Tolstoy is presenting is pretty much a broad discussion here on the philosophy of life, exploring all aspects of it including marriage, adultery, love, hate, jealousy, despair, religion, atheism, class struggles and much much more. These moments can be boring and require research (like knowing a rough history of the emancipation and nineteenth century history of Russia helps) but there are also moments where Tolstoy is, obviously, a genius. Lovely statements on philosophy, especially in the last section of the novel, prove to be a complex articulation of the overall themes, but leave you feeling as though you've read something profound, and that's because you have.

I found the first sections a breeze. These read somewhat like a cross between Chekhov and Austen, with perhaps a dash of Ibsen at times. The plot is scandalous, almost melodramatic: adultery and aristocratic scandal. It's quite fun. But it soon slows to a much more contemplative pace, that leaves you, at times, hanging out for the next plot point, which can be many pages away. It deserves to be a classic, no doubt about it, but it's these kind of books that make me aware of my young brain. There were times I was praying for a car chase or juicy sex scene.

There are no car chases, but there are several moments where, quite unexpectedly, Tolstoy will describe something, or have something occur: a death, a small moment of intimacy, that will shock you. It's a lovely surprise, and is even more effective when set against the restrained tone of the rest of the novel.

Read it. It's worth your time. But take your time with it. It's broken up into small bite size chunks that are fairly easy to get through.

Oh, and go and see Lazarus Won't Get Out of Bed at Metro Arts, Edward St Brisbane. Book tickets and find details at www.metroarts.com.au. Why? Because I wrote it, that's why. :-)

How to live like a fake grown-up

2009-09-29T13:45:00.000-07:00

These rules got me through the first year or so out of home:

1. Keep only a superficial relationship with food. Invest in a large pack of sausages to put in the freezer, as well as oven chips.

2. When out of money, eat stuff from cans and just stop moving. Going out will only make you haemorrhage more cash. Watch YouTube

3. Never ever return videos on time and always make excuses when they ask you to pay the fee. Your kind housemate will probably pick it up.

4. Tidy only when there's an inspection. Ensure your house is messy enough so that if you decided you wanted to clean, you'd need to set an entire day aside.

5. It's ok to drink milk one day after the expiration date. Two-days is ok for tea, but not for drinking.

6. If the loo is next to someone else's bedroom, put some toilet paper in it (the loo, not the person's bedroom) to cushion the sound of your poo.

7. If you live in Toowoomba: go to Coco's for fruit and veg, Patton's Butchers for meat and then Woolys for anything else. Don't be fooled by IGA's promise of fulfilling community values, unless you wanna pay $7 for a box of cereal.

8. It's your duty to distract your housemates away from studying as much as possible, as it is theirs to distract you.

9. If you find yourself constantly saying: 'I'm out of credit', then get on a plan. Pre-paids for teenagers with myspace accounts and lots of Daddy's money.

10. Every so often, buy a Penguin classic to look and feel smart. Only ever read the first page or so. Then Wikipedia it. Congratulations, you just read that book.

11. Watch SBS at least once a week to feel smart and multi-cultural.

12. Enjoy. This won't last long.

Dusty

2009-09-23T14:17:00.000-07:00

I'm writing this from Brisbane, which yesterday, like most of the rest of the country, was coated in a thick, yucky orange haze. Felt and looked dreadful. Worst on record. Climate change, anyone?

Am concerned about money. But, funnily enough, obviously not concerned enough to keep my desires and cravings for material objects under control. So my head gets caught in a battle: to buy this and enjoy it, to not buy it and keep wanting to buy it, or to eventually buy it (this is what usually happens) and not enjoy it but feel quite guilt afterwards.

Don't know why this is bothering me now. I've managed poverty fairly easily in the past. Summer is always worrying for freelance artists. It's the off time and usually means no money. So the next few months is about preparing yourself for the windfall. Try as I might, I don't think the preparation is going to be enough this year. I can feel a Christmas casual job coming on.

Which, again, reasonably, I know is fine. But ti's the idea of no money that I panic at and I'm not sure why. Like I say, I've face no money before and lived through it, reasonably easy. It's boring but you make do.

Absolutely everything in this room is covered in dust. A yucky cleaning up job will soon follow.

Don't worry. Be happy.

Re-visiting Sgt. Pepper's

2009-09-21T23:33:00.000-07:00

It's quite possible you're sick of hearing about the Beatles, particularly in this blog. But I simply can't help myself. It's been just under a week since I made a compromise with myself. Unable to buy the full box-set of the Beatles catalogue due to financial restrictions and the fact that they're sold out everywhere, I resigned to buying a single album every fortnight or so, re-mastered in beautiful stereo, to truly savour the re-releases.

The first purchase, with no particular priority, was Sgt. Pepper's. The music is incredible and the album stands as one of the greatest of all time.

The idea for the 'concept' of Sgt. Pepper's came from Paul. Eager to separate themselves from the stuffy 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand' days that they now felt was restrictive, the band took on a new persona. The original idea became a bit lost on the album itself. The original plan was to have all the songs link up in a kind of epic concert fashion. In reality, this only happened between the first two tracks, introducing the fictional 'Billy Shears' (played by Ringo) to sing 'With a Little Help From My Friends'. Nevertheless, the album is still hailed as a giant leap forward artistically, sometimes referred to, somewhat wankily as a 'concept album'. While Paul was consistently enthusiastic, John later recalled in interviews that he was never that attached to the idea, and the album, in his mind, is just a collection of songs much like any other.

With that out of the way, I simply say you should listen to the album. And here are other interesting tit-bits:

1. This album was made in '67. The release prior to this was the double single 'Strawberry Fields Forever' and 'Penny Lane', neither of which, surprisingly, actually made it onto any album.

2. John and Paul insist that 'Lucy In the Sky with Diamonds' is not about LSD, and the acronym is purely accidental. The title came, John says, from a picture his young son Julian drew, which he claimed to his father was called 'Lucy In the Sky with Diamonds'.

3. 'When I'm Sixty-Four' is in fact one of the oldest Beatles songs. They used to perform it at the very start of their career, particularly if the guitar amps were stuffed because the song only required a piano.

4. Some of the most surprising tracks on the album include 'Fixing A Hole' and 'Lovely Rita.' Neither of which I had properly listened to. They're not particularly famous, but certainly worth your time. I should also add 'Within You Without You' to that list as it's pretty gob-smacking and revolutionary too.

5. The only fly in the ointment within the album is 'Good Morning Good Morning' which is a bit too much of an acquired taste. I find the more I listen to it the more I like it, but it's definitely not one of the best songs.

6. 'A Day In The Life' is truly amazing and one of the best rock songs ever. I feel it's more amazing than 'Bohemian Rhapsody.' Think along the same epic and nonsensical lines.

7. There is a final bit at the end of the album, apparently, pitched so high that only dogs can hear it. The boys found this particularly funny. 'Why not have a bit for the dog?'

No Sex Please, I'm listening to Radio Drama

2009-09-21T03:26:00.000-07:00

I'm going to give you a little gift. Get into some BBC radio podcasts, or at the very least British. It's the equivalent to watching SBS news: you feel intelligent, cultured, and upper-class, especially in contrast to listening to Australian or (God Forbid) American podcasts.

I particularly recommend BBC Radio 4: The spoken word BBC channel. (There are, like, seven in all. Seven!) And furtherly particularly I would recommend The Archers.

The Archers was first broadcast in 1950 and is now the longest running soap opera of all time. It's broadcast six days a week, for about 12 minutes an episode. It's a fun bite-sized piece of rural life that makes you feel so pleasant it'll leave you pining for the days of the empire and rampant colonialism. It's all set in a fictional rural town and is about the general happenings of the village. In comparison to other soap operas, not much happens in each episode. The most exciting thing that has happened thus far was a young man running his bike into a fence. It was quite a scare, but no one was injured. I had to have a cup of tea after that.

It's a nice, non-eventful little part of your day. You can get it on iTunes. You'll love me for it.

How not to play risk

2009-09-19T22:12:00.000-07:00

As I write, I'm in the middle of my third game of Risk this week. Two times I've played Risk: Godstorm, and yesterday was Risk: 2210AD. Everytime I've lost, quite badly, and it looks like this run will be no better.

So this is how not to play Risk.

1. Don't trust people. Ever.

2. Don't attack or build a strategy build on the principle of revenge or emotion.

3. Don't trust people. Ever.

4. Don't maintain the same strategy the entire time.

5. In direct contrast to number four, be consistent with your strategy.

6. See number one.

7. Only play with people you know can sustain the full wrath of your hatred. Fragile relationships will break from this game. (see number three)

How to wash up

2009-09-19T01:31:00.001-07:00

You know how there are those things in life that just seem unmovable? Those little personal rituals that are so engrained, so within us, that it is always a strange and alien incident when we see someone else doing the same thing, but in a completely different way. And then you are asked to adapt, dismiss or evolve. This is really how humanity progresses.

Too vague?

Ok. I'm talking about the washing up. Because everybody I've ever met has got a clear definition of how to wash the dishes. And they're usually quite opinionated about it.

This is how I presently wash up. This order has been produced due to a couple of important external factors. The first is that we have ridiculously small space in our kitchen to do the washing up and so stacking wet dishes becomes important. Thus, this order works well for washing up great amounts of dishes in a small amount of space. Secondly, my girlfriend forthrightly believed one should always wash glasses first. I used to do plates, then glasses. No no no. Glasses then plates. So -

1. Glasses and mugs (usually set to dry on a separate tea towel on the kitchen bench)

2. Bowls (stacked easily one on top of the other)

3. Plates (starting from smallest too largest)

4. Cutlery (spread about all over the place, in all the little nooks and crannies)

5. Pots and pans (usually put over the plates or glasses to dry)

This is a process that has been refined through time. It is, as I mentioned before, a microcosmic demonstration of how we interact with the world. We have our little square of it, constantly changing and evolving. It's also how the internet works. We're all just reacting off each other.

Hmmmmm. That's it, really.

The Governmental Body

2009-09-17T14:29:00.001-07:00

Ok. Some exposition for the international friends.

Dennis Fergurson is a convicted pedophile. (Although the media will usually refer to him as 'monster'.) Through some act of legal tap-dancing, he was released from prison many years ago, back into the Australian community. His face was plastered everywhere. Since that first day, the news has been interrupted every six months to broadly advertise Dennis' home and how much the community hates him, whereupon he'll be re-located by the police to another secret location to be revealed in another six to eight months time. It's government money spent every time to move him, and so it's the 'hard-earned tax payer' type of anger as well.

Dennis' latest sojourn took him out of his home state (Queensland) into Sydney in an attempt to start with a clean slate. This move has come without any other news of the kind of stupid mistakes (or deliberate criminal acts) that surrounded his moves in Queensland, where he frequently ended up close to schools and other child-friendly centres.

So why am I talking about this?

I was absolutely blown away last night while watching 'Q & A' on ABC1. A question from the audience came up about the issue of Fergurson and how the government planned to respond, as the present situation was clearly not working. The questioner suggested the use of chemical castration as a means to finally put the issue to rest. (The questioner only specified chemical and not literal castration upon further clarification.)

More surprising than the question was the response that followed. No one seemed to bat an eye lid. Have I missed something here? Is this actually a debate that reasoned people, in power, are discussing?

The government representative (a familiar face whose name I have forgotten) treated the topic seriously by dismissed it fairly easily. The reasoned argument against it, which I would tend to agree with, is that castration simply wouldn't work on child sexual offenders. Most offenders do not commit the crime out of a irresistible sexual urge but a far deeper need for power and control.

This opposition was represented by the eternally dim-witted offensive show man Joe Hockey, who put on his big macho patronising voice and replied that he simply had a 'zero tolerance' policy for sexual offenders, and would want Dennis out of his own community by any means necessary if he lived near him. He then went on to ignore the host's further question (Well where should he go?) and tackled the idea of castration. 'I am not a medical expert,' were his immediate words. But he then went on to say: whatever needs to be done to stop these people, needs to be done.

I am so disturbed by this conversation, but I'm starting to think from the response given by the speakers on the panel, and the audience, that I may be in a minority. It just seems so medieval to me, it's primitive medicine: if we have a chronic masturbator, then we cut his hands off. If we have a sex offender, than we cut his dick off. It simply wouldn't work.

Apart from that, when a government starts talking about deliberately mutilating somebody's genitals - shouldn't red flags go up? Aren't we robbing someone of basic human rights?

Yes, ok. Disclaimer type paragraph here. Sexual crimes against children are heinous and should be met with the most severe punishment and rehabilitation. Absolutely.

The conversation moved to interesting places, including admission of the well-known fact that we keep hidden in our subconscious: there are convicted pedophiles living everywhere in Australia. It just so happens that we know and recognise Dennis Fergurson. Let's face it: the guy looks bad. He looks like the evil dude they draw in child safety cartoons. To me, it smells all a bit much of mob fear, suspending reason and serious thought. I don't know what the solution to the problem is, but the day the government starts changing the physical body of people against their will, will be a very dark day.

Beatles for the non-believer

2009-09-16T16:50:00.000-07:00

Does the other site take ages to load? Sick of being stuck reading the blog in what feels like a completely closed off little dave-o-sphere where only dave-o-sphere people can read it? Well fear no more! I have joined the mainstream. Blogger! Yee-ha. Let's see how this goes.

Returned home after a few days away. First things first - The Beatles Rock Band met my stupidly high expectations. I'm not a complete video games nut, but I do enjoy them. This game is incredible. But I've decided to focus my blog today on that small group of you that only possess a marginal interest in the band. Or simply don't like them at all.

What happened on 09/09/09 was this: the entire Beatles catalogue was re-released to specifically target, most likely, you, dear reader. The young gen-y, brought up with The Beatles sound buried in their subconscious but nonetheless present. So if you haven't taken the time to properly study them, do.

To often their sound gets shoved into a twangy 60's sound that only represents about a tenth of their overall career. Nevertheless, tracks like 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand' and 'I Saw Her Standing There' are fantastic tracks, however, I admit, they may not be to everyone's taste. They are the songs that were very fashionable at the time. This was the early stages of the band, during their initial explosion, and they were yet to tap into the tunes that would ultimately prove to be timeless. And now, with the new recordings, the tracks sound like they were recorded yesterday. So that snooty little elitist sneer you greet 'old music' with can now be removed, thank you very much.

If you want to know how punk rock and bands like Jet started out, listen to 'Helter Skelter'. If you're a fan of Angus & Julia Stone, Xavier Rudd and other acoustic mild ballad types, than I would suggest 'Yesterday', 'Mother Nature's Son', 'Dear Prudence' and 'Here Comes The Sun'. If you want something that, to this day, no one has really matched, listen to 'Tomorrow Never Knows'. If you want a song to bellow out at the top of your lungs, while subtly encouraging wild drug use, listen to 'Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds.'

The best album I can recommend to you, if you want to be introduced to them, is 'Love', released last year to soundtrack the Cirque Du Soleil show based around The Beatles. These are all the original tapes re-mixed into a Beatles mega-mix spanning their entire career. And it's awesome. So there.

I realise I'm probably only talking to stupidly small sliver of people who know nothing about the Beatles - but man, you don't know what you're in for. It's The Beatles that I blame for my limited musical palette. This sub-culture of musical elitists that are peculiar to gen-y (I'm so cool I listen to music that doesn't even exist yet - those guys) has managed to totally bewilder me. Because a lot of the time when I'm shown something that's supposed to be friggin' awesome, my mind brings up an instant challenge: is it as good as The Beatles? Inevitably, it's not only not as good, but it has it's root in a sound that the Beatles explored over forty years ago.

So there.