The Use Of Poetry by Ian McEwan

I read this short story by Ian McEwan in this week's New Yorker. The first half was thoroughly engaging, perceptive albeit mildly acerbic and a touch cynical. The consequences for Maisie Farmer of womens' liberation didn't ring true to me and it was there that the story lost the plot (so to speak). I think I expected more of both Ian McEwan and The New Yorker.
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Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs

Funny, at times surreal; now and again plain, old-fashioned bonkers. The cooked chicken sequence defies description.

One almost feels sorry for Jet Star

Angela Catterns of ABC Radio 702 interviewed me for ten minutes in the afternoon about the wheelchair users' policy Jet Star operate requiring us to surrender our chairs at check-in rather than the gate. News outlets this morning had been all over a story told by Kurt Fearnley last night at the national disability awards (which I missed attending because of my arse). On his return from crawling the length of the Kokoda track in 8 days, Jet Star made him surrender his wheelchair at check-in. Rather than be pushed through the terminal in Brisbane on a Jet Star aisle chair, he crawled to the gate then went public. Jet Star has been in damage control all day. So I got to speak on air about this afternoon. I spoke well. That at least made this frustrating day worthwhile.
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And today's word is ...

... abscess

That's what the doctor says I have on / in my much larger than usual right buttock. First, it seems, we're going to try a series of daily injections of some antibiotic that appears to have the strength to fell horses. If that fails we'll decide (on Sunday) if it's going to require a spell in hospital. THAT, I can do without.

Photo by Ardo Leijen
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The long and winding road to Geelong

It turns out that my speculation on the 11^th of this month was about right. It wasn’t an overactive bowel that was causing my sweating. It was damaged skin on my right buttock. I spent the next four days in bed while the superficial damage healed. I stayed away from work for two further days, sitting on my wheelchair on an inflatable rubber ring that Spike bought. I had to work today though, having committed to speak at a staff gathering of employees of a Victoria open employment support NGO. I just couldn’t tell them I couldn’t attend, not at 24 hours notice. So Spike accompanied me, which was fun for me.

We drove to the airport at 5:30 a.m. then flew to Melbourne. We caught the Skybus into the CBD, which really did take no more than the timetabled 20 minutes (much to my amazement). We caught the V-Line train for Geelong in plenty of time. Thanks to two infuriating delays at a place called Werribee (maybe because of a level crossing boom-gate, maybe because of signal failure, maybe because of alienated youths train-surfing, maybe because of all three) our 56 minute trip took 2 hours and 20 minutes. Our hosts re-arranged the agenda, brought forward lunch and slotted me in shortly after we arrived by taxi from the train station. I spoke well but, as usual, for too long.

After saying our farewells, leaving them to some outdoor team-building exercises, Spike and I wiled away the late afternoon at the twee waterfront. It must have been a working port at one point, now gentrified in a not-unpleasant way. Our hosts insisted we take a taxi back to the airport. Even at $125 for the trip (which they too insisted on paying) we didn’t say no. We were NOT risking the train again. We caught the 8:30 p.m. flight back to Sydney then I drove home.

All accomplished sitting on a bright red inflatable rubber rung. I can be a ridiculous old twit. I am glad I made the effort, though; not that I could have done it without Spike. Fortunately it did no damage to my buttock (didn’t improve it but did no damage).

The Carousel at Geelong

It's all the fault of women, apparently

I read Book Three of The Iliad this evening: Paris, Menelaus and Helen. The text lead me to some pages in Wiki concerning the judgement of Paris. I vaguely recalled the phrase but not the story behind it. Reading the summary in Wiki, I had an 'aha' moment ... so that's what led to the Trojan War. It wasn't simply (or at all) that Helen was fickle, favouring Paris on her wedding night to Menelaus. Helen, I now understand - although maybe I knew this but had forgotten - Helen was the bribe offered by Aphrodite to Paris given the task (by Zeus) of choosing "the fairest" at a feast on Mount Olympus. The prize to be awarded by Paris was the golden apple - aka the apple of discord - thrown into the mix by Eris, the goddess of Discord, who had not been invited to the banquet by Zeus. So it's all the fault of women, except if Zeus had been more attentive to the needs of everyone none of the mess would have happened at all.
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Battlestar Galacta: the plan

We watched nearly two hours of total-Geek science fiction. It made sense to me because I'm a fan of the re-make series and have watched every episode. Spike may have been slightly bemused from time to time because as a stand-alone narrative I have to be honest and say 'The 'Plan' is bonkers, full of plot holes, illogical jumps and unexplained comings and goings.

I wondered if it was essentially a compilation of deleted scenes from Series 1 and 2. It's unlikely the producers would have recalled actors only to have filmed chat between good versus bad 'skin jobs'. That may make the piece a triumph of editing but even then we're still in the territory of unnecessary movie making. It added nothing of depth or complexity and, what's worse, felt a little ... dare one say this about BG ... boring.
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Agamemnon's dream

Book Two of The Iliad today. The latter half, known as the catalogue of ships, is (to say the least) challenging. Basically it's a long list of ancient Greeks' names and just as long a list of ancient Greek places - principalities, kingdoms and cities - most of which are difficult to pronounce and some impossible. And there are the Trojan leaders and places too. I guess the listings meant more to Greeks around 400 BC when the oral tradition, the need to recite great works in public was at its height. Still, I ploughed through it. One must.

The opening sequence was enjoyable: capricious Gods, evil Dream whispering in the ear of a vainglorious Agamemnon, the rush for the boats home as he tests his men and the efforts of Odysseus to rally the troops. They do feel real, those Kings and Generals of Greece. Agamemnon, proud but brave, a nincompoop at times; Nestor the toady, arse-licker; sulking Achilles, loyal Odysseus. As for the gods? One of the most appealing aspects of these epic tales is that the gods are such capricious, scheming, untrustworthy and devious actors in their own rights; a warring family who fight the petty battles of Mount Olympus often like bored, impetuous, spoiled children. You would think that Agamemnon might have known better than to trust the words of Dream. He'll learn (too late).
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The Quarrel by the Ships

Sitting at home, bathed in the warm sun of a Spring Saturday, I was gripped by another of my periodic moments of self-doubt about writing. You know the sort of self-destructive, poisonous thought ... I'll never amount to anything, never produce anything worthwhile, never be published, etc, etc. All of that's probably true but none of it manages to kill the desire.

Ditch the ego, just write ... said Halimah (years ago). I try but every now and then again I wonder, write what? How?

So, I spent a while today wandering the Internet looking for something, not sure what; a spark of genius, inspiration maybe or an easy answer (of which there are none). I did, however, come across this piece of useful advice (from Stephen King). "If you want to be a writer you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot." It's hard to resist the obvious.

It seems like a good idea, therefore, to go back to the beginning (so to speak). That explains the hour or so, probably more, reading aloud book one of The Iliad in a translation by Ian Johnston

Good old Homer, then: my saviour. Maybe. Maybe not. At least I'm writing something, even if it's no more than this blog entry about how I'll never amount to anything as a writer.
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A Christmas Carol

On the plus side: Robert Zemeckis's new movie stays faithful to the original, although I'm not sure that all that Dickensian moralising has much appeal in the 21st Century. That's not the fault of Dickens, of course. The spirit of Marley is well done; quite scary. The spirit horse's head emerging from the the shadows on the wall is effective; maybe the most effective image or scene in the entire movie. the snow was quite well-realised in 3D as were the (too many) scenes of characters observed through glass. Neither is a strong enough justification of 3D.

On the negative side: it's long and tedious at times. There's much too much whooshing through the air (a bit reminiscent of The Snowman): whoosh over the roof tops of London (several times); whoosh through the trees of Christmas past; whoosh down the drains and across icicle-strewn tiled roofs during the rather ridiculous shrunk-Scrooge sequence; whoosh to the graveyard of Christmas yet to come. Robin Wright Penn, Bob Hoskins and Colin Firth were under-used.

Ho hum. Well-intentioned but thoroughly unnecessary. I don't think the world really needs a new Christmas Carol. If we must have one, it ought to have been more engaging than this.

Something in the air

Intoxicated by her scent,

something citrus

with cardamom and salt (incredibly),

provoking a way through

this still, night air; lifting off skin

at the end of this too hot day -

too fiery, too dry,

almost dangerous

and too much like summer for spring -

the idea strikes me

we may never comprehend

the alchemist’s intentions

for that is not the purpose

nor is that how this ends.

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Fresh Snow

Crisp under foot, its surface
crumpling beneath a worn yellow boot
to give out a sound that could be
confused with the noise an egg makes -
hard-boiled - when tapped gently
on a corduroy-clad knee, resting
near the summit of Buchaille Etive Mhor
on a cloud-free day when we were
sixteen maybe - or seventeen
at a push - with few concerns
(none of them serious) and too little
imagination to worry in any way
beneath that pristine sky, azure,
unbroken as far as the eye could see
beyond Ben Nevis to the east,
The Cullens on Skye to the west
and the whole Great Glen running north
to south where home lay, distant and safe.

I wrote the lines above after reading this (in search of inspiration I suppose). I have a lot to lear about poetry.

DON PATERSON

Sliding on Loch Ogil

Remember, brother soul, that day spent cleaving
nothing from nothing, like a thrown knife?
Then there was no arriving and no leaving,
just a dream of the disintricated life —
crucified and free, the still man moving,
the balancing his work, the wind his wife.

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