Eyes and Ears - 20/02/2009

USSR:

When I was younger I didn't get poetry. I mean, I thought it was real purdy and all that, but I never rilly understood it. I'd just listen carefully to what our lit teacher was saying about Bruce Dawe and Wilfred Owen and kind of give it back to her in essays. I knew how to pick out the bits that meant something without knowing what they meant, if you see what I mean. I didn't really get back into poetry reading until I was about 35 and suddenly it all came together - the beauty and the sense. People might call it maturity but it has been well established I have none of that, so I'm not sure what has happened. Maybe life's experiences have nevertheless managed to find a crack in my brain and seep in, deepening my appreciation of the human condition and my compassion for my fellow man despite my determination to remain shallow.

Or something.

So now when I read Wilfred Owen - "In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,/He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning." - I find myself moved. I say things like, "Well, well, well. Goodness me." Or words to that effect.

What I really wanted to say, though, is that I've done no reading this week. Nowt. Not even the ingredients on the back of the cereal packet. However, I did buy a book! A poetry book. I was in Borders trying to decide between two different volumes of Australian poetry. They seemed pretty similar but one had heaps of Ania Walwicz poems while the other had only two. But they were her two best: 'Australia' and 'Little Red Riding Hood'. The other book didn't have 'Little Red Riding Hood'. I couldn't choose between them so I took neither: I think I'm going to have to go back and get both. My poetry shelf needs beefing up to more than just an amusing limerick collection.

Instead I bought a collection by Ishmael Reed. I based my judgment on a quick flick through the book and one poem of his that in the past I've read and loved: 'Beware: Do Not Read This Poem'. I'll let you know how I go.

In the meantime, this is a great poem. And the commentary by Camille Paglia is worth a look too.

Spin Me Some Platters:

Love is a Rose - Linda Ronstadt
Short Memory - Midnight Oil
Are You Ready to be Heartbroken? - Lloyd Cole & the Commotions
I'm a Man You Don't Meet Every Day - The Pogues
Loco - Fun Lovin' Criminals

Eyes and Ears - 13/02/2009

USSR:

Gonna write a classic

Gonna write it in an attic

- Adrian Gurvitz

[Ha HA! You weren't expecting that, were you?]

When I was a little kid I wasn't afraid of the dark. I liked pitch blackness and complete silence to lull me to sleep. Bloody Ern said I even used to come stomping out from my bedroom and ask everyone to keep the noise down. But then in the post-Dyzie days my traumatised little soul responded by developing a rip-roaring fear of the dark. Ern was most understanding and each night for months on end he would sit by my bed and hold my hand until I'd nodded off. (I told you he was the best.)

And that fear of the dark never really left me. It was kind of embarrassing as an adult to know that whenever Grumpy was away I'd be coming home in the evenings to announce at the front door, "Alright, rapists, murderers...and...er...boogie monsters...I know you're here so now's your last chance to GET OUT!" Well, that certainly showed them. But here's the thing: since Grumpy moved out my fear of the dark has evaporated. Just like that! I don't even turn any lights on when I come home late at night. I LOVE walking around my house in the dark.

So I let all this new-found fearlessness and maturity go to my head this week and I cracked open The Virago Book of Ghost Stories. Shiver. This collection, all women authors of course, wasn't overly creepy to read but the ladies sure know how to create a chilling after-effect. The problem is, you don't realise it until you're walking down the hallway in the dark and you jump at a noise somewhere off to the side of you, or was it behind you? It doesn't matter, just sprint for the bed. And then down at the beach, in the daylight savings dark, you hear a noise in the bushes. Listen, what was that? There it is again! What is it??? It's just something caught on a branch and flapping in the wind...or is it?

You see what I mean.

Probably I just need to grow up a bit. But then what would I have to talk about?

High Rotation:

Dancing in the City - Marshall Hain [I've loved this song since I was eight years old. Whenever I hear it I get a happy eight-year-old feeling. Whatever that is.]
Fuming Out! - Custard
Run On for a Long Time - Blind Boys of Alabama
It Was a Good Day - Ice Cube
Rachel Cooper - The Bedridden

Eyes and Ears - 06/02/2009

USSR:

Big thanks to New Girl for holding the fort. Big UPS, in fact. Recognise.

Anyhoo, I have a belly full of some delicious chickeny thing that Tam O'Shanter cooked for dinner; I have an internet connection; I'm ready to blog.

Sometimes, if you let it, a book seduces you. Well, the letting is the key, obviously. Otherwise it is not consensual and that, my friends, is not seduction but a criminal act. Have no doubt.

On one of my secondhand book forays with New Girl, I picked up a copy of With Hemingway, a memoir by some chap called Arnold Samuelson. Seems this Arnold chappy had a hankerin' to be a writer so he made his way down to Key West to meet the Hem and ended up spending a year with him, soaking up the wisdom and advice of the great man and, you know, the vibe of the thing. Also, they fished in many well-lit places.

I didn't have high hopes for this book. I was afraid that this guy would try to write like Hemingway. That annoys me when that happens. Just because he did it well, it doesn't mean they all have to do it. Sheesh. I mean, if Hemingway was jumping off a cliff.... But what turned out to be so super impressive about this lovely little book was that Mr Samuelson didn't let his adoration of EH dampen his own expressive and enthusiastic writing style - reflective no doubt of his enthusiastic response to life. It's utterly charming, this story, and conveys the awe in which he held Hemingway without coming across as a cringing toady. Of course, EH still comes out of it like the egotistical arse we all know he was. But it's the only description I've come across that portrays him as a person, a human being, rather than a walking amalgam of legendary stories, mythology and iconic restraint. It's the first time I've read something about the man and felt fondness for the old rogue.

Now I've misplaced the book, but I'm going to come back and bung some quotes in here. Just you wait and see.

High Rotation:

Love Removal Machine - The Cult
Andres - L7
All These Things That I've Done - The Killers
Let Your Love Flow - The Bellamy Brothers [Oh you can roll your eyes but consider this: "Let your love bind you to all living things" - isn't that just a great guide for life? Go on, tell me I'm wrong.]
Midnight Rider - The Allman Brothers Band

A little bit of power…

No, I’m not talking about me (New Girl) having the power in once again holding the reins to hb’s blog, I refer instead to the reason why!

I met hb for a long Friday lunch today, (“Start as you mean to go on New Girl!” hb declared when I wondered aloud if she could justify this on her first day), and as soon as the waiter took the menus away:

hb: “I have no internet access there yet, you must blog for me. Make some notes.”

NG: “Hey! Slow down there – you’re not MY manager!”

In alignment with the true collaborative style for which I am known, I agreed to facilitate this communication medium. However because I am who I am I stopped for a coffee on my way home first. You’re not the boss of me etc.

OK – here you are. hb says:

___________________________________________

Dear, dear readers,

It is with regret that I cannot bring you my much loved Eyes and Ears post within the usual timeframe. I know this is not the standard you have come to expect from me, and -as an international blogger of some renown- it is disappointing to say the least that my new employer has not yet realised the wide spread devastation they have caused by failing to provide me with the most basic of amenities. But readers, fret not, as soon as I learn their names I will be sacking the people responsible. I will – of course – bring you up to date with my readings and listenings, (perhaps even my learnings), later on. After I get home from paying Tam O’Shanter and Small Thing a visit. Do check in later to find out what literature and tunes I have been gracing with my attention.

I love you all.

___________________________________________

So there you have it. She’s NOT blogging yet, but she’s THINKING about it. Apparently she going to write about how she read a book about someone who once met Hemmingway and then wrote about it.

Hemmingway. I have heard of him. Fact.

Eyes and Ears - 30/01/2009

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Last week New Girl and I took a spin up to Pickwick Papers (a second hand book shop in Kalamunda) where the odd but kindly owner was having a sale - 50% off all books priced at under $199 or under; 20% off all books $200 and over. If you're in the area, the sale is still on this weekend. We'll be there again buying up BIG - so, like, just back off, okay??

The owner has taken quite a shine to us based on the tomes we've bought there our last couple of visits. It really doesn't matter what our other flaws may be, in his eyes we are untouchable because we enjoy fine literature. "How did you two young ladies come by such good taste in books?" the old honeydripper asked. "Superior breeding," I told him. Unfortunately, he seemed to take this in all earnestness.

So this time round I bought, among other volumes, a book called Haunted England, which is a collection of ghost stories, lore and legends from around, well, England would you believe? It's a pretty simple little book, but entertaining, and has kept me nicely diverted as I've trundled to and from work on the bus this week.

Equally absorbing but far, far heavier going has been Ted Hughes' Birthday Letters. Last week as I browsed the shelves of Elizabeth's with Heidi, I briefly contemplated buying a collection of Ted Hughes' letters (I think I'll go back and get it this weekend - so, like, just back off, okay?) and commented to Heidi, "What I'd really like to see here is Birthday Letters." And then, lo and behold, there it was. So I got it. I haven't read it cover to cover; that would be too much. But I have jumped around, slowly working my way through each poem that I come across.

For those of you not in the know, these poems are all about Hughes' relationship with Sylvia Plath from the time of their meeting to her suicide - and beyond, I suppose, as he wrestled with the aftermath. The book is filled with drama and sadness and psychological upheaval. Also, importantly, love and admiration. I thought Grumpy and I had a fairly volatile relationship at times, but it never made me want to stick my head in an oven (the fact that I could only ever find electric ones is a side issue). My favourite so far, because it is the most hopeful, is the first poem in the book, 'Fulbright Scholars'. You can read it here.

High Rotation:

You're in My Heart - Rod Stewart ("My respect for you immense" - oh suuuure)
And I Moved - Pete Townshend
Life is a Highway - Tom Cochrane
Never Satisfied - Living Colour
What Deaner Was Talkin' About - Ween

Eyes and Ears - 23/01/2009

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Then she says, "You don't read women authors, do you?"

Least that's what I think I hear her say.

"Well", I say, "how would you know and what would it matter anyway?"
"Well", she says, "you just don't seem like you do!"

I said, "You're way wrong."

She says, "Which ones have you read then?"

I say, "I read Erica Jong!"

- Bob Dylan, Highlands

You've heard of transition relationships? I think I'm having a transition relationship with a book. I'm almost finished Murder in Montparnasse, a Phryne Fisher mystery by Kerry Greenwood. I'm not too sure about this book; not too sure at all. It's a bit dull, a little plodding. And Phryne Fisher isn't the kind of gal I can relate to. [What's more, that Michael Fitzsimmons doesn't seem like the barbecue type!] She's got it all, knows it all, does it all. Really. But then maybe I'm judging it all too harshly because I loved The Exception so much? Maybe. In the meantime, I'm looking for the next good thing.

The real bugger is that when I found this series of books I was so enthused by the art deco-ish covers* that I bought three at once. I hope they improve. Blast!

High Rotation:

Free Bird -Lynyrd Skynyrd
Big Time Sensuality - Bjork
Let's Work Together - Canned heat
Rush You - Baby Animals
Red Paint - Neneh Cherry

*At least, I think its art deco. It could be art nouveau. Or something in between? Secessionist? You be the judge.

Eyes and Ears - 16/01/2009

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Up straight, Year 8!

- Mavis Prosser

Here's the thing: 39 years into life and I finally - finally - realise that I don't like reading in bed. In fact, I don't much like reading lying down. Why has it taken me so long to cotton on to this? Because everyone likes going to bed with a good book! So I just assumed that I must too: I must, dammit! But I don't. You see? I find that I can't get comfortable; I can't coordinate where the book needs to be and where my arms want to be. And, apart from anything else, I just want to go to sleep when only a minute ago I wanted to be reading the book of the moment. Du jour, if you will.

And so it came to pass that last night I sat up straight on the couch - with my feet up on the coffee table; like I care what you think - and finished the particularly gripping book I'd been, well, gripped by all week: The Exception by Christian Jungersen. Have you read this book? Oh you must. Grippedness guaranteed.

Four women work at the Danish Centre for Genocide Information - not a particularly thrilling start - and when two of them receive death threats they soon stop looking for an outsider to blame and turn on each other. Although never told in the first person, different parts of the story focus on different women. As the story moves along we expect to learn more, and we do, but the different characters' stories provide slight contradictions for each other, and each character only reveals so much while hiding or repressing other things. Who to believe, and who to sympathise with? Sympathy is in short supply as the women show themselves to be not so far removed from the war criminals they investigate.

The language and style of the book is very plain, but it's this plainness set against the dramatic present and past events described that pulls the reader madly along. This book is everywhere. Really, you must read it.

Radio hb:

Franklin's Tower - Grateful Dead
Ain't That Pretty At All - Warren Zevon
Woman 2 Woman - Urge Overkill
Two Hands - Townes Van Zandt
93 Million Miles Away - Swoop

Eyes and Ears - 09/01/2009

USSR:

Good Christmas presents:
(1) New Girl gave me the framed picture. When I finally get round to rearranging my lounge room it's going to nestle nicely amongst my English crime collection. Bliss. Not that I'm reading any of that just now. It's a winter pursuit, I feel. On the lounge with a crocheted rug and a cup of tea. Except I don't drink tea. And I don't crochet. But a girl can dream of the ideal life.
(2) Next to that is the four-volume collected letters and diaries of Harold Nicolson. This was from The Antiquer and an exceptionally thoughtful present it was. We'd seen this bundle in a second hand book shop and The Antiquer was nudging me to buy it, but it was more than I could afford at the time (and it meant I'd have to give up getting Rationale of the Dirty Joke by G Legman). Lo and behold it turned up in my Christmas stocking. I've been browsing through it ever since. Great stuff.

Also read (but far from also ran):
100 Australian Poems You Need to Know: Slightly overblown title, I think, but chockers with great poems I've never read before. My two favourites so far are side-by-side. Excerpts:

'The Quality of Sprawl' by Les Murray:

Sprawl leans on things. It is loose-limed in its mind.
Reprimanded and dismissed
it listens with a grin and one boot up on the rail
of possibility. It may have to leave the Earth.

'Bring Me the Sweat of Gabriela Sabatini' by Clive James

Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini
In a green Lycergus cup with a sprig of mint
But add no sugar -
The bitterness is what I want.

Radio hb:
2-4-6-8 Motorway - Tom Robinson
Driver's Seat - Sniff 'n' the Tears
Open All Night - Bruce Springsteen
Radar Love - Golden Earring
The Ballad of John Bonham's Coke Roadie - TISM

Eyes and Ears - 19/12/2008

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Two quick reads this week:

Rumpole and the Penge Bungalow Murders - John Mortimer takes us back to Rumpole's first murder case, which made his name. We also learn how Rumpole met She Who Must Be Obeyed and, despite Hilda's sometimes obnoxious determination, there's some real affection in the portrait of their courtship and marriage:

'I would like to propose a toast,' I raised my voice against the gossip from the schooldays, 'to the person who supported me during the Penge Bungalow trial, who encouraged me from the public gallery and who stopped her learned daddy from kicking me out of my room in chambers. So, will you all charge your glasses and drink to She Who Must.'
'To whom?' My wife looked puzzled.
'To you, Hilda.'
'I thought you might want to drink to that dreadful Daisy Sampson.'
'Don't you remember? She married Reggie Proudfoot. No, I was drinking to you, Hilda. Entirely to you.'

Mortimer has really written this book for Rumpole fans (either book or show). If you've never encountered the shabby legal star, fond of a sip of Chateau Thames Embankment, start somewhere else, otherwise many of the glorious jokes and portraits of long-standing characters might be lost on you. And that would be a shame.

God is Dead by Ron Currie - God comes to Earth as a refugee in Sudan and is killed. In the wake of his death the world struggles to reorganise itself and establish new codes of meaning. This is a fantastically well-written book, with some wonderfully wry moments, and a very fine balance between humour and what is essentially a pretty grim story. Ultimately, though, it left me feeling a bit washed out and down. Perhaps I wasn't in the mood for futility.

Radio hb:
Now, come on, no rolling of the eyes: I've waited all year. And it is my birthday week, so just live with it.

Hazel (of course) - Bob Dylan
Absolutely Sweet Marie - Bob Dylan
Shelter from the Storm - Bob Dylan
Romance in Durango - Bob Dylan
Can't Wait - Bob Dylan

Eyes and Ears - 12/12/2008

USSR:

All good people read good books
Now your conscience is clear
- Tanita Tikaram

After the last couple of weeks of rewarding but fairly heavy going reading, this week required something uplifting, something to be read for the pure pleasure of it. And so I turned to my old desert island standby: PG Wodehouse. Specifically, the Jeeves and Wooster books. I've tried other Wodehouse but nothing does it for me like the sheer silliness of Jeeves and Wooster.

The old lemon throbbed fiercely. I got an idea.

As for Gussie Finknottle, many an undertaker would have been deceived and started embalming on sight.

Had Stinker encountered Spode on the football field, he would have had no hesitation in springing at his neck and twisting it into a lovers' knot. The trouble was that he was a curate, and the brass hats of the Church look askance at curates who swat the parishioners. Swat your flock and you're sunk. So now he shrank from intervening and when he did intervene, it was merely the soft word that's supposed to turn away wrath.
"I say, you know, what?"

My Aunt Dahlia has a carrying voice... If all other sources of income failed, she could make a good living calling the cattle home across the Sands of Dee.

"Have you ever seen Spode eat asparagus?''
"No.''
"Revolting. It alters one's whole conception of Man as Nature's last word.''

It was the sound of aunt calling aunt. Like mastodons bellowing at one other across a primeval swamp.

You get the picture. I hope.

I'd never read any Wooster until 1988 when I was laid up in hospital with tubes sticking out of me everywhere, recovering from a burst appendix. I was nearly out of my mind with boredom and constant vomiting when one of my uncles, Raffles, brought me in a stack of Woosters to read. Not only did they make me laugh until I literally hurt, each evening when he came to visit the two of us would recite our favourite lines to each other.

Which, you know, made a for a bright and pleasant change from quoting Leonard Cohen.

Every home should have at least one Jeeves and Wooster book in its library - indeed, even if it happens to be the sole book that constitutes its library. It is, as Homer Simpson says, good for what ails you.

Radio hb:
Contact - Big Audio Dynamite
Motorhead - Corduroy
All Your Jeans Were Too Tight - American Music Club
World, Shut Your Mouth - Julian Cope
Raise the Alarm - Big Dog

Eyes and Ears - 05/12/2008

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I've introduced a new rule for reading now that my Endless (I Wish) Summer is here: no reading during daylight hours. Except if I'm waiting. Like I was the other evening while someone shopped for bread and milk. Then you get absorbed in what's in front of you and you either miss your bus or have a small heart attack when the car door opens. Anyway, my point is that the day time has got to pack too much other stuff into it and then when the night comes I can flake out on the lounge with the book of the moment.

Which, this week, has been Beautiful Children by Charles Bock. It's about a missing child and there the similarity to last week's reading ends. The book starts out in a wide arc, covering a range of characters not directly connected to the story, taking in time before the boy disappears, and moves in ever decreasing circles, gathering in people, places and events, building suspense and revealing a little more to the reader. Bock's writing reminds me of David Foster Wallace - both of them adept at merging the voice of the narrator with the characters' voices, both good at taking you on wild, detailed tangents and bringing you neatly back to the story. This book is darker than London's book, but it enjoys its darkness and as the story picks up pace you are drawn on, galloping along with it to find out where you're headed and what happens next.

The writing isn't in the same league as London's. It's pretty sloppy in places and I get the sense the author thought this might be the only book he'd ever write so he's tried to get everything in, but it's still a highly recommended read.

Radio hb:
Dirty Jeans - Magic Dirt
Deeper Water - Dead Star
Sweater - Eskimo Joe
Surf City Limits - Fauves
Suspicion Bells - Effigy

Eyes and Ears - 28/11/2008

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The more that you read, the more things you will know.
The more that you learn, the more places you'll go.

- Dr. Seuss

The Good Parents by Joan London. The only book I've read this week, and the best book I've read this year, perhaps longer. Every word is perfect, every sentence is carefully chosen and the storyline and the structure are unexpected. An 18 year old girl disappears from Melbourne just before her parents are due to arrive for a visit from country Western Australia. The story wanders back through the past and follows the fortunes of different family members as they linger at the heart or on the periphery of the mystery. I picked this book up expecting something dark, but it's far from it. It's lyrical - "She could see rings of salt surf, like petrified time" - and lovely, with the various storylines culminating in one happy ending, one tentative ending and a very bittersweet outcome for unrequited love. Not that unrequited love can ever be anything but bittersweet. More bitter than sweet for most people, I suppose. This is a thoughtful, wonderful story told without anything out of place. I loved it. Try reading it.

Radio hb:
I Go Crazy - Flesh for Lulu
That's Me Trying - William Shatner
Tightrope - Stone Roses
Sweet, Sweet Love - Russell Morris
2541 - Grant Hart

Eyes and Ears - 21/11/2008

USSR:

She is too fond of books, and it has turned her brain.

- Louisa May Alcott

Well the Silence has been Sustained and Uninterrupted, so that takes care of the USS, but as for the R...well... It's been a busy week of slacking off and slacking around and the most focussed I've managed to be on reading is to concentrate on the answers to the previous day's cryptic crossword.

I had a go at starting The Kite Runner, a book I never wanted to read in the first place because, as I was telling someone, so many people tried to press it upon me. Read this, oh you must read this.

And then I decided to give it a burl and I'm about 1/4 of the way in and I have doubts, serious doubts. I will finish it (eventually) & report my feelings in their fullest and truest form. Like you care.

Fortunately, Initials in the Tree has lent me a book of limericks [The Lure of the Limerick, edited by WS Baring-Gould], which has helped wile away the time in a most entertaining fashion. Among the Basil Brush moments flying thick and fast, here are my favourite three, so far:

A wartime young lady of fashion,
Much noted for wit and for passion,
Is known to have said
As she jumped into bed,
'Here's one thing those bastards can't ration.'

A daring young lady of Guam
Observed, 'The Pacific's so calm
I'll swim out for a lark.'
She met a large shark . . .
Let us now sing the Nineteenth Psalm.

There was a young lady of Louth
Who returned from a trip to the South.
Her father said, 'Nelly,
There's more in your belly
Than ever went in by mouth.'

The book even has, according to the blurb, " a critical examination of the form and structure of the verse which traces the origins from ancient Greek times through Shakespeare to Edward Lear". But I haven't read that yet because, hey, come on, it's limericks?

Radio hb:
Not Given Lightly - Chris Knox
Beasley Street - John Cooper Clark
Meija - Porno for Pyros
What's Up? - Four Non Blondes
Imperfect List - Big Hard Excellent Fish

Eyes and Ears - 14/11/2008

USSR:

Zest. Gusto. How rarely one hears these words used. How rarely do we see people living, or for that matter, creating by them. Yet if I were asked to name the most important items in a writer’s make-up, the things that shape his material and rush him along the road to where he wants to go, I could only warn him to look to his zest, see to his gusto.

- Ray Bradbury

I love Ray! I met him, apparently, but have no memory of it. Just a letter I sent to my aunt with a Polaroid of me and him, and a signed copy of a book. It disturbs me how much happens in my life that I don't remember. So, as you can see, I'm recording all the really important stuff here.

Last night I polished off Breaker Morant: A Horseman Who Made History by FM Cutlack. Generally, when people want to read about Harry Morant they turn to Kit Denton's "classic" novel, The Breaker. I never have. I find I have a set against Kit Denton merely on the basis of having a set against his son, Andrew. I get sets. I'm like a badger.

Cutlack was a boy when Breaker Morant worked on his parents' property in South Australia. He clearly idolised the man and this comes through in the romantic portrayal of the horseman as a swashbuckling adventurer, out for nothing but some good times (and a bit of killin'). Nevertheless, he tells a lively story and for someone like me who is not an avid reader of either history or biography, it certainly kept me enthralled. The book also includes a collection of Morant's verse; some of it not too bad. This first verse of the last poem he wrote, on the eve of his death by firing squad, is, I think, a rather grand example of grace under pressure:

In prison cell I sadly sit -
A d-d crestfallen chappy!
And own to you I feel a bit -
A little bit - unhappy!

Also read:
A Book of Common Prayer by Joan Didion. I'd never read anything by her before and am now a confirmed fan. Until I read another book and hate it.
The Pleasure of My Company by Steve Martin. Very funny and really very sweet. He can't help doing the schmaltz but he does it pretty well.

Radio hb:
Thank God I'm a Country Boy - John Denver [It's so true! Life ain't nothin' but a funny, funny riddle!]
Kiss Them For Me - Siouxsie and the Banshees
Angel of the Morning - Juice Newton [I'm so embarrassed to love this song. But there you go, I do. And let's face facts: I'm playing it right now.]
Grey Cell Green - Ned's Atomic Dustbin
Rose of Cimmaron - Poco [What is this song all about? I have no idea. I just like listening to it.]

Eyes and Ears - 07/11/2008

USSR:

"But no more rat puke, okay? Try to write something beautiful."

- Peggy Sue Got Married

I love poetry; good poetry. Bad poetry is worse than bad prose. I know. I've had a couple of bad poems written to me. There was this guy I was hanging round with at college? I thought he was a fun person and I was a little bit interested in him. And then one night he slipped a poem under my door, which I think he considered to be a prime example of the art of seduction, and I lay awake all night trying to figure out if I could spend the rest of my life hidden inside my room because he had suddenly become the weirdest, creepiest person in the world. After that, awkwardly and horrifically enough, I had to go home with him for a weekend because I'd already said I would, and, poor student me, I'd bought a non-refundable train ticket. His family also turned out to be creepy and weird. There were miscarried foetuses, from the hospital where his mum worked, in the freezer in ice-cream containers. His mother asked me in a loud and jovial voice in the supermarket if I needed her to grab some, er, prophylactics for us and got rather huffy when I explained that not only would we be sleeping in separate beds, they would have to be in separate rooms only because separate continents didn't seem possible to arrange at short notice. I destroyed that poem. I did think about hanging on to it so that I could have a jolly laugh over it in twenty years' time. That would have been a mistake. Every now and then a vague memory of it stirs in the deep recesses of the brain matter and it still makes me cringe.

A sweet but very nerdy boy in Canberra wrote me a poem about 5 years later. (It wasn't Grumpy: I did say sweet.) It had no artistic merit whatsoever but it was simple and very complimentary to me and unlike the previous effort, didn't make any assumptions about what might unfold between us down the track. So I went out to lunch with him and while we were out we ran into a girl I knew, also sweet and nerdy, who ended up joining us at our table. Sparks flew between he and she. I had every intention of hanging on to that poem but he came to see me a couple of weeks later to ask for it back. He felt it had the potential to upset his now girlfriend; someone he wouldn't want to upset for the world. I thought that was such a gentlemanly thing to do. It made me wish I'd been able to see past the nerdiness.

Grumpy wrote me a poem once. He bought me a dive watch for my 30th birthday. He had engraved on the back:

Under water
Or above
I love.

He has a girlfriend now but he hasn't come round asking for the watch back. Well, maybe she doesn't go diving.

So I've been reading some poetry this week:

Borrowed Ware: Medieval Persian Epigrams. (In translation, obviously.) I knew nothing about Persian poetry beyond Omar Khayyam so this little volume has been a revelation. The verses are clever, beautiful and sometimes humorous and provide a small window into the intrigues and operations of Persian courtly life.

I said, 'Are you aware of how love's scorched
My crazy heart?' And smiling she replied,
'My dear - come on! What does the candle know
Of how a moth has blundered, shrivelled, died?'
- Fakhraddin Mobarak Shah

Look at this parti-coloured flower
An agate streak, a pearl-pale streak -
Two lovers who have crept away
And lie together, cheek to cheek.
- Manjik

My cousin, David Musgrave, is a poet and I've been re-reading his collection To Thalia. You can read some of the poems here. 'Lagoon' is very good.

I raced through Dorothy Porter's El Dorado, another of her fabulous poetry novels. Why can't more prose novelists write with this skill? Strains begin to show and suspicions emerge in the relationship between two old friends as they hunt a child killer.

Loose end
On the white doona
of the sterile bed
on her first night
in her South Yarra
serviced apartment
Cath's hand twitches
in her sleep

like a warm loose end
floating on the surface
of an ice-cold deep.

On Wednesday night I curled up on a very comfortable couch and browsed through The Idiom of the People: English Traditional Verse (edited with an Introduction and Notes from the Manuscripts of Cecil Sharp). I foolishly turned down the offer to borrow it. I was tired, and I am an idiot.

Non-poetry reading:
A Clubbable Woman by Reginald Hill. The first Dalziel and Pascoe mystery. I should have read it first. It's overshadowed by the wonderful way he's developed his characters in subsequent books. Dalziel with glasses???
Black+Whiteley by Barry Dickins. This was, I think, supposed to be a memoir of Brett Whiteley that showed him as something other than an unpleasant, spoiled, drug-addict artist. I enjoyed reading it, because reading Barry Dickins is always worth reading, but I saw nothing of the artist that wasn't an unpleasant, spoiled drug-addict.

Radio hb:
Use Me - Bill Withers
Dixie Drug Store - Grant Lee Buffalo
Sister Luck - Black Crowes
Sundown - Gordon Lightfoot
But Is It Art? - Stephen Duffy

Eyes and Ears - 31/10/2008

USSR:
Sitting in pride of place on top of my bookshelves this week are seven marvellous volumes which make up Arthur Fox-Davies' The Book of Public Speaking, a collection of famous or admirable speeches (to 1913), tips on what makes a good public speech and speaker, and anecdotes and background material for the aspiring orator. It's all rather wonderful, inspiring and entertaining stuff. I wish I had a fireplace so I could say it would make great fireside reading. Maybe at your place. It's not just the speeches, it's the editorial insertion of the audiences' responses which add to the reading pleasure. Here is Daniel O'Connell speaking on the struggle for Catholic emancipation:

Gentlemen: - I could not be an Irishman if I did not feel grateful, if I was not overpowered at the manner in which you have received me. Sorry, sunk, and degraded as my country is, I still glory in the title of Irishman. [Bursts of applause.] Even to contend for Ireland's liberties is a delightful duty to me. [Enthusiastic plaudits.] And if anything is wanting in addition to the evidence of such humble efforts as I have already been engaged in, for the restoration of our freedom and independence, to evince my devotion to the cause of my country, I do swear, by the kindness you have shown me now - by any I have ever experienced at your hands, and by all that I hold valuable or worthy of desire, that my life is at her service. [Applause.] And may the heavy hand of adversity fall down upon me, and upon all that are dearest to me - the children of my heart - if ever I forsake the pure pursuit of the liberty of Ireland. [Cheering for several minutes.]

BIG thanks to Initials in the Tree for picking this up for me. I was going to cook him chops for dinner but now I might have to make an effort.

Radio hb:
Some Fool's Mess - Gallon Drunk
Levitate Me - Pixies
Frank Mills - The Lemonheads
The Acoustic Motorbike - Luka Bloom
Girl U Want - Devo

Eyes and Ears - 24/10/2008

USSR*:
"I think an apology is in order," said The Antiquer.

"I'm sorry I didn't listen to you before when you told me I should read Dan Leno and the Limehouse Golem."

"And? I do believe it's been five years."

"I'm sorry it's taken me five years to finally agree to read Dan Leno and the Limehouse Golem."

When The Antiquer first gave me DL&tLG to read, he pressed it upon me, insisted I read it. I love browsing other people's bookshelves and borrowing stuff. I'll even ask them what they think of a certain book, and their enthusiasm can be catching, but as soon as a book is thrust under my nose with a "you must read this" attached, I resist. I don't know why. So The Antiquer was put out and ticked off when I returned the book eventually, refusing to read it. There has been quite the nagging campaign over the years though, to be fair, it's the only book he's ever set as required reading. So on Monday he handed it over again and I solemnly promised to read it. I took it out on Monday night with a deep sigh and set about my task. Imagine my surprise to find it was worth the pushing.

"That book is fantastic! Where have you been hiding it all these years??"

"I told you you'd like it. Tell Initials. I've been trying to get him to read it too."

I turned to IitT with the starry eyes of the zealot. "Oh you must read this book!"

Also digested this week:

- Great Dream of Heaven, a collection of short stories by Sam Shepherd. Knockout writing. Borrowed from The Antiquer and jealous that he owns it.
- Little Bits of Baby by Patrick Gale. I finished this book and, while I could see that it was good writing and an entertaining plot line, I wasn't ever absorbed by it. I felt like I was an observer of my own reading, appreciating all the tricks but not transported.

Radio hb:
The Changeling - The Doors
Ain't Comin' Back - Nine Below Zero
Moody River - Doc Watson
Rita Ballou - Guy Clark
I Never Picked Cotton - Johnny Cash



*Uninterrupted Sustained Silent Reading

Eyes and Ears - 17/10/2008

Reading:
Most cake recipes should begin thus:

First, take every bowl you own out of your cupboards. You'll be using each and every one, though later you'll wonder why. Then you'll wash them up. This will create in you a hollow sort of feeling, an eternal wind whistling, and circling you the faraway horizon meeting an empty sky.

We're talking about the banality of existence here. Or something.

Anyway, preheat the oven to 175 degrees....

So I've been making cakes and delicate little cupcakes in this fashion for some time now and then I happened to browse through this book:


The Burp gave it to me months ago and I've only just discovered that it includes a vanilla cupcake recipe which is all-in-one. That's one bowl and one bowl only, for slow readers. One spatula and one set of beaters. You don't even have to sift the flour! Of course, it makes it kind of hard to justify turning on the dishwasher, but if you use a new plate each time you eat one, the racks soon fill up. And these cakes are delicious. They're very buttery, as is the icing, which I find a plus. Mona Lisa confesses she finds them just a little too buttery and The Antiquer reports that he has to use a crowbar to get the Small Thing down off the ceiling after she's eaten one.

But here's my point: you can't please everyone.

Last time I called in chez Antiquer with cupcakes in hand I showed them to Small Thing and told her, "Remember, the pink icing reminds us that we're girls and the purple decorations remind us that we've been liberated from male white corporate oppression." She didn't seem fussed. And The Antiquer can't be too appalled either by the saturated animal fats or by the feminist inculcation as he's put in another order of cakes for next week.

I've also started reading Patrick Gale's Little Pieces of Baby. I'm only a quarter of the way through and I'm not sure I like it; not sure at all. I'll get back to you on that one.

Top 5 Songs:
Mona Lisa commented today that so much of my music seems to be upbeat or happy. I told her I often skip over the sad or "meaningful" songs. She knows I'm not the most introspective of people. Come on, everyone, get happy! I don't know how you'd classify this mix, but they make me feel pretty good.

Nearly Lost You - Screaming Trees
Lost Control - Grinspoon
My Boyfriend's Back - Alice Donut
A Good Idea - Sugar
Dragula - Rob Zombie

Eyes and Ears - 10/10/2008

Reading:
Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski. Read this book. It's hard and grim and occasionally funny and it's the way every one should write about their lives: not writing the life you wished for, but embracing the one you had. There was something incredibly invigorating and inspiring about these pages. Bukowski's alter ego, Henry Chinaski, doesn't spare us one moment of ugliness or brutality but the simplicity of the prose is a counterpoint to the intensity of emotion and experience pouring off each page.

If you're a bit of a delicate petal like me, after you've read Ham on Rye you're going to need something to pick you up again. For me that was AA Milne's The Sunny Side - "short stories and poems for proper grown ups". This was the stuff that Milne was writing before Pooh took over his life. The writings in here are pure, lighthearted delight from beginning to end, without a whisper of cynicism or meanness. It made me want to go back and read through all my Wodehouse.

Of course, a really good actor can often give a clue to the feelings of a character simply by facial expression. There are ways of shifting the eyebrows, distending the nostrils, and exploring the lower molars with the tongue by which it is possible to denote respectively Surprise, Defiance and Doubt. Indeed, irresolution being the keynote of Hamlet's soliloquy, a clever player could to some extent indicate the whole thirty lines by a silent working of the jaw. But at the same time it would be impossible to deny that he would miss the finer shades of the dramatist's meaning. "The insolence of office, and the spurns" - to take only one line - would tax the most elastic face.

Top 5 Songs:
Say Hey (I Love You) by Michael Franti & Spearhead
Daughters of the Northern Coast by Australian Crawl
You Better You Bet by The Who
Mercury Blues by David Linley
Moira Jane's Café by Definition of Sound

Eyes and Ears - 03/10/2008

The Antiquer and I went book shopping yesterday - a secondhand book shop in North Perth is having a closing down sale: 90% off everything! The A is good to go on the hunt with as he's quite patient and thorough and he found me some good books that I overlooked in my hit-and-miss style. Afterwards we saw his friend Initials in the Tree, who clearly leaves The Antiquer's bookish ways in the dust as he was appalled that at 90% off we hadn't bought the whole shop. Between us I think we counted him mentioning it about three times.

[I believe IitT is now a reader of the blog. "Hello, IitT," she said coyly.]

But I haven't been reading any old books lately. Just new books, with their delicious new-book smell.

Reading:
So I dried my eyes from reading Papa Hemingway - which probably had me thinking a bit too much about Papa Bloody Ern - and moved on to Graffiti My Soul by Niven Govinden. He was nearly undone by the stupid quote on the front of the book: "A modern-day Hanif Kureshi." Forgive my curmudgeonly ways but isn't Hanif Kureshi modern-day?? Well, perhaps not if you're fifteen. I picked this up in the bargain bin at Oxford St Books and I'm so glad I did because it was fabulous, dahlings. The story of Veerapeen, a running star, his doomed friendship-romance with his friend Moon Suzuki, and the trials of being a Tamil-Jew high schooler in Surrey. This book is genuinely funny and cynical and has some nice moments of lightly-drawn insight, and you're never allowed to forget you're being told a story by a fifteen-year-old:

When I make my entrance into the main changing room proper, hair slicked back, towel wrapped low around my hip bone, a thin line of pube just visible above the yellow terry cloth, the room is empty, aside form a couple of fatties (they'd call themselves muscular distance runners 'cos they've done weights, but they're fatties to anyone else). Peter Platinum, Under 17s champ, also passes through, or should that be prances through. Runs like a woman on and off the track. All the real dudes are on trackside starting their warm-up. Major disappointment. I look fit when I'm wet. The two fatties aren't interested. They take one look and go to the showers, where they're probably going to bum each other furiously.

The back of the book says that it's "hip, rich, big-hearted and unforgettable." It seems this year that everywhere I turn various forms of writing are being lauded as "rich". I don't know what that means. I know when I've eaten a rich meal because I have to unbutton my pants, but this book didn't leave me feeling that way; it left me feeling like my pants fit just right.

The other book I've read this week is The Seance by John Harwood. This is good stuff. A young girl in Victorian-era England is bequeathed a derelict old house and a mystery with it. Harwood uses enough language to set and maintain the scene without alienating the reader. His book moves between three narratives and he manages to write in a convincing voice for each of them.

I don't know what I'm moving on to next. Something other than Teaching Principles and Practice, I hope.

Top 5 Songs:
The Drowners by Suede
Oh, Negresse by John Delafose
After the Blackbird Sings by The Wallflowers
Saint Joe on the Schoolbus by Marcy Playground
Universe by Big 5