I have now read three novels by Malcolm Knox. Summerland, Jamaica and now A Private Man. And I am glazed by awe.
His style reminds me of the engaging minutiae of Ian McEwan, but more engaging for me I think because of the Australiana. Complex sentence structure that flows so well in the brain. Thought-processes crafted to appear like stream of consciousness.
His choice of words and erection of sentence build a complete picture of character such that everybody is full to bursting with traits that others would gloss over or ignore completely. And yet it drew me in so completely.
The plot centres around several characters from the same family. One a father who had died and is a GP. The other four are his wife and three sons. The three sons are a comfortable registrar, an estranged pornographer and an Australian Test Cricketer horribly out of form.
Every aspect of life is examined down to the space between husband and wife prior to sleep in their double bed.
I highly recommend Malcolm Knox's intricate brand of character analysis. I will be seeking out a copy of The Life, his fourth novel. I thank him for his work.
Tom
Saturday, 2 November 2013
Convenience
Walking through the city I came across a convenience store advertising banner. I am reluctant to say that advertising had an effect on me. I pride myself on the unlikely outcome that this form of spiritual diminishment has no effect on me at all.
But I will admit to this one. As I walked past this banner ad I was drawn to it. Convenience stores have proliferated and provide succour to the sugar junkie craving the wonderful hit of sucrose or the similar craving of the faux-sweetness of phenylalanine or sorbitol (that excellent disclaimer on the sides of packaging: excess consumption may have a laxative effect - of course products containing sugar dont have to add that they may raise insulin to levels that may facilitate diabetes later in life).
Back to the advertisement. Somebody walking past the convenience store was asked to make a rather unusual impulse purchase. The common chocolate bar or confectionary bag or soft-drink special - no there will be none of that. Damn those cliches of modern living. Death to those lowly snack foods. Perish the thought of providing minimal income to the manufacturer who would have to sell many thousands of packets to make a shareholder-pleasing profit.
Now I really have raised the expectations of this item of food that could be popped in for.
So it is time to say what it was. To reveal the final piece of the puzzle. To tell the secret that made me sit in front of my computer and write my first blog entry for months.
It reminds me very much of the time I sat in front of the computer and spent hours searching for the terra cotta colour on a drawing program. Then I created a series of parallel lines that overlapped each other. Some vertical and others horizontal. Then I coloured the gaps in between that terra cotta colour. But that seemed cheap.
So I expanded the width of the lines shaping the rectangles and searched again for the appropriate colour to shade those lines. A sort of non-descript grey colour. The mortar was complete and very unlifelike. A brickwall. Two-dimensional. Like most brickwalls. And like every other virtual brickwall I have ever seen, it felt exactly the same when I banged my head against it. It had the plastic feel of a laptop screen but the same effect.
Meanwhile, back in Mawson Station Antarctica, I got back to the point. Banging my actual head against a virtual brick wall even though most brickwalls are two dimensional like my computer screen and should realistcally feel much the same has nothing to do with what I saw but I thought riffing on something would feel good.
Turns out, it isnt. It feels like self-indulgence of the purest kind.
So, what was the item of food that caused this abuse of the time of my band of loyal followers?
A 24-hour convenience store offered by a banner advertisement:
Black Forest Cherry Gateaux.
And I didnt succumb. How could I not? Why I didnt slide it inside my pocket and consume it whilst on the bus trip home? Cannot explain that really.
And before anybody asks, no they were not selling slices. Convenient whole gateaux. $14.95 I believe.
A Queen and a Pavarotti for a log of heaven.
Tom
But I will admit to this one. As I walked past this banner ad I was drawn to it. Convenience stores have proliferated and provide succour to the sugar junkie craving the wonderful hit of sucrose or the similar craving of the faux-sweetness of phenylalanine or sorbitol (that excellent disclaimer on the sides of packaging: excess consumption may have a laxative effect - of course products containing sugar dont have to add that they may raise insulin to levels that may facilitate diabetes later in life).
Back to the advertisement. Somebody walking past the convenience store was asked to make a rather unusual impulse purchase. The common chocolate bar or confectionary bag or soft-drink special - no there will be none of that. Damn those cliches of modern living. Death to those lowly snack foods. Perish the thought of providing minimal income to the manufacturer who would have to sell many thousands of packets to make a shareholder-pleasing profit.
Now I really have raised the expectations of this item of food that could be popped in for.
So it is time to say what it was. To reveal the final piece of the puzzle. To tell the secret that made me sit in front of my computer and write my first blog entry for months.
It reminds me very much of the time I sat in front of the computer and spent hours searching for the terra cotta colour on a drawing program. Then I created a series of parallel lines that overlapped each other. Some vertical and others horizontal. Then I coloured the gaps in between that terra cotta colour. But that seemed cheap.
So I expanded the width of the lines shaping the rectangles and searched again for the appropriate colour to shade those lines. A sort of non-descript grey colour. The mortar was complete and very unlifelike. A brickwall. Two-dimensional. Like most brickwalls. And like every other virtual brickwall I have ever seen, it felt exactly the same when I banged my head against it. It had the plastic feel of a laptop screen but the same effect.
Meanwhile, back in Mawson Station Antarctica, I got back to the point. Banging my actual head against a virtual brick wall even though most brickwalls are two dimensional like my computer screen and should realistcally feel much the same has nothing to do with what I saw but I thought riffing on something would feel good.
Turns out, it isnt. It feels like self-indulgence of the purest kind.
So, what was the item of food that caused this abuse of the time of my band of loyal followers?
A 24-hour convenience store offered by a banner advertisement:
Black Forest Cherry Gateaux.
And I didnt succumb. How could I not? Why I didnt slide it inside my pocket and consume it whilst on the bus trip home? Cannot explain that really.
And before anybody asks, no they were not selling slices. Convenient whole gateaux. $14.95 I believe.
A Queen and a Pavarotti for a log of heaven.
Tom
Monday, 5 August 2013
predictive blogging
Some readers may remember a few weeks back I started a blog by talking about the possibility of somebody riding a bike over a piece of glass and puncturing a tyre. It then developed into a speculative piece about the guy who threw the beer bottle and the girl who was amused by it and how they ended up in bed together and both died horrible deaths.
On Friday morning in the rain I rode to work for the first time on my new bike seat post. On Wednesday afternoon my bike seat had failed. If anyone wants to ask how that occurs I can explain later.
As the second lot of driving rain hit while I was in the last kilometre to work on that Friday morning I saw too late a broken glass bottle of Pure Blonde in the bike lane. I rode over it and heard a crack.
When I got to work I noticed nothing problemmatic. I checked the tyre and it was fine.
End of the day though and the tyre was flat as. I removed it and checked the tyre had no more glass poking through and changed it and pumped it back up again but was working at cross-purposes to the puncture in the tube. I must have replaced the punctured tube with the same punctured tube.
I started again and ensured the new tube went in by throwing the old one far away. It pumped up much more quickly this time but as I packed up my gear I heard a hiss and checked the tyre again and it was flat already. I wont relay my words but there was a staccato stream of short syllables.
So I called a taxi and rode home wearing wet lycra in a cramped and cold taxi with my dirty and soaking bag on my lap.
I would have checked the online news for details of the unusual deaths of two youths by drunken broken bottle induced sexual misadventure but thanks to the Adelaide Advertiser's paywall (with free limited access by subscription) I couldnt do that easily and so will take two new tyres and two new tubes to work on Wednesday instead.
On Friday morning in the rain I rode to work for the first time on my new bike seat post. On Wednesday afternoon my bike seat had failed. If anyone wants to ask how that occurs I can explain later.
As the second lot of driving rain hit while I was in the last kilometre to work on that Friday morning I saw too late a broken glass bottle of Pure Blonde in the bike lane. I rode over it and heard a crack.
When I got to work I noticed nothing problemmatic. I checked the tyre and it was fine.
End of the day though and the tyre was flat as. I removed it and checked the tyre had no more glass poking through and changed it and pumped it back up again but was working at cross-purposes to the puncture in the tube. I must have replaced the punctured tube with the same punctured tube.
I started again and ensured the new tube went in by throwing the old one far away. It pumped up much more quickly this time but as I packed up my gear I heard a hiss and checked the tyre again and it was flat already. I wont relay my words but there was a staccato stream of short syllables.
So I called a taxi and rode home wearing wet lycra in a cramped and cold taxi with my dirty and soaking bag on my lap.
I would have checked the online news for details of the unusual deaths of two youths by drunken broken bottle induced sexual misadventure but thanks to the Adelaide Advertiser's paywall (with free limited access by subscription) I couldnt do that easily and so will take two new tyres and two new tubes to work on Wednesday instead.
Puns
After 4 months of warming and feeding and watering and building and mulching and clipping and feeding our chickens - Eleanor and Mabel and Rosie - they ran up to my daughter and I after we'd arrived back from the shops. They were clucking away like they were proud as punch. It seemed as though they had laid an egg. I checked the nesting box but found nothing.
Maybe they had just been excited to see us. We had lunch and put away the shopping and read some books.
At about three in the afternoon I was outside and saw something in the grass. A brown egg speckled white. One of them had laid an egg in the middle of the yard. I thought I'd better check the box and found another. Two eggs. No wonder they were tickled pink.
So, now we are starting to get into eggs. The three chickens are starting to grow up.
About to leave the nest.
Fly the coop.
Spread their wings.
Not wanting to fall fowl of anyone's sensibilities, but we didnt even have to egg them on.
Wattle be next?
Struggling a bit now, I'll need to use a fine-toothed comb. (That was a stretch.)
That's it.
Maybe they had just been excited to see us. We had lunch and put away the shopping and read some books.
At about three in the afternoon I was outside and saw something in the grass. A brown egg speckled white. One of them had laid an egg in the middle of the yard. I thought I'd better check the box and found another. Two eggs. No wonder they were tickled pink.
So, now we are starting to get into eggs. The three chickens are starting to grow up.
About to leave the nest.
Fly the coop.
Spread their wings.
Not wanting to fall fowl of anyone's sensibilities, but we didnt even have to egg them on.
Wattle be next?
Struggling a bit now, I'll need to use a fine-toothed comb. (That was a stretch.)
That's it.
Sunday, 28 July 2013
Truth - A brief Review
I am a little late to the Peter Temple Fan Club. I feel like the doors opened years ago and now I'm the guy who got there late and is trying to catch a furtive glimpse through a dusty and grimy window. Last year I read his book called The Broken Shore and loved the mood and the environment and the ttunnel he put me in where I was watching a movie made only for me. One of those books that I kept close and read snippets in seconds if that was all I had.
The Broken Shore's semi-sequel Truth is one I picked up last week and remembered everything good about its semi-prequel. The character picture is holistic and visual. The settings and plot create that quiet dread within me that he got there first.
The style is sparse. Commas for conjunctions. Names for sentences. A word for a paragraph. And yet so much is squeezed into each page that it is little wonder that he won a Miles Franklin for it.
Inspector Villani is such a flawed and lovable character but he is only one in a role call of likeable people within whom I could recognise failings and impulses and bad judgments.
A back-catalogue of Peter Temple will shortly be making its way out of stores and onto my to-read pile already stacked with too many books now relegated to second-billing.
Tom
The Broken Shore's semi-sequel Truth is one I picked up last week and remembered everything good about its semi-prequel. The character picture is holistic and visual. The settings and plot create that quiet dread within me that he got there first.
The style is sparse. Commas for conjunctions. Names for sentences. A word for a paragraph. And yet so much is squeezed into each page that it is little wonder that he won a Miles Franklin for it.
Inspector Villani is such a flawed and lovable character but he is only one in a role call of likeable people within whom I could recognise failings and impulses and bad judgments.
A back-catalogue of Peter Temple will shortly be making its way out of stores and onto my to-read pile already stacked with too many books now relegated to second-billing.
Tom
Monday, 22 July 2013
Trust in smartphones
At the encouragement of a smarter man than I another post has been written. Looking back on my previous anger-riddled attempt at connection to humanity I think it is a good thing that I dont leave that as my last published contribution to the world. It was certainly convcieved in contempt and misguided contempt at that. So I box on to try and create some sort of equanimity in my world.
Yesterday on my way to visit the smarter man than I and his delightful family it was an overcast day threatening rain that eventually came while I was still driving. It was the Melbourne midwinter. I was stopped by the intense amber then intense red of a traffic light. A pedestrian waited by the side of the road waiting to cross. She was immersed in a white headphone coccooned smartphone visual world. I have no idea what she was listening to or watching and would love to speculate but wont.
She obviously heard something in her external world because without looking away from her screen she stepped onto the road. Now, sidestreet, minimal problems. But I was on one of Melbourne's eastern arterial roads. By the time she was halfway across there was a serious line of cars backed up both ways. Saturday early afternoon with people possibly rushing to get home before the rain came is not the time or place or environmental circumstancews to push fate's envelope. And I dont even believe in that shit. So, let's try another analogy. It was not the time to test drivers' reactions or levels of fatigue. Or to put it another way, all it would have taken was another person driving a car to be doing exactly what this girl was doing (looking at a phone I mean, not standing by a pedestrian crossing, that would just be foolish) for this girl to be in serious levels of distress and exsanguination.
This girl looking at her phone made it all the way across the road and otnot the footpath before she looked up and appraised her actual rather than virtual surrounds.
And they say we dont live in a trsuting society anymore. Or maybe there is some new Safe Road Crossing Application.
Tom
Yesterday on my way to visit the smarter man than I and his delightful family it was an overcast day threatening rain that eventually came while I was still driving. It was the Melbourne midwinter. I was stopped by the intense amber then intense red of a traffic light. A pedestrian waited by the side of the road waiting to cross. She was immersed in a white headphone coccooned smartphone visual world. I have no idea what she was listening to or watching and would love to speculate but wont.
She obviously heard something in her external world because without looking away from her screen she stepped onto the road. Now, sidestreet, minimal problems. But I was on one of Melbourne's eastern arterial roads. By the time she was halfway across there was a serious line of cars backed up both ways. Saturday early afternoon with people possibly rushing to get home before the rain came is not the time or place or environmental circumstancews to push fate's envelope. And I dont even believe in that shit. So, let's try another analogy. It was not the time to test drivers' reactions or levels of fatigue. Or to put it another way, all it would have taken was another person driving a car to be doing exactly what this girl was doing (looking at a phone I mean, not standing by a pedestrian crossing, that would just be foolish) for this girl to be in serious levels of distress and exsanguination.
This girl looking at her phone made it all the way across the road and otnot the footpath before she looked up and appraised her actual rather than virtual surrounds.
And they say we dont live in a trsuting society anymore. Or maybe there is some new Safe Road Crossing Application.
Tom
Thursday, 23 May 2013
Chuck it all into a bin and dump it and move in
So this waste of millions of sperm and an ovum stopped me this morning to tell me that the bin I just moved was there because this is not a bikepath. Despite the bike path along the river being closed because of the destruction wrought by the bridge between the Adelaide Oval and the city because other wastes of seed and eggs cannot walk an extra few minutes to the football in two years' time.
This is despite politicians and health experts decrying the obesity epidemic. Somehow it can be justified to reduce a walk to the plastic seats of a screaming cauldron to raise blood pressure at umpires whilst scoffing crusty and fried potato and a pastry filled with brown and thick fluid and pieces of non-descript mammalian viscera condimented by tomato and SALT.
And this fuckstick tells me this with a straight face tells me this is a footpath despite too many signs with a stylised bicycle printed above the words SHARED PATH in navy print upon white background.
This guy is goodlooking and fit and forty-ish and is unable to read a fucking sign.
If I were able to discern why got so defensive about it I would probably not be taking off on this poor fella. He was just doing his job. I assume that is what he was doing - supervising the bin staff making sure they poured the contents of a small bin into a larger bin ready for that to be poured into a really big bin so it could be transported to a really really big bin that could be loaded into a medium scale truck for final deposit into landfill.
Goodbye.
This is despite politicians and health experts decrying the obesity epidemic. Somehow it can be justified to reduce a walk to the plastic seats of a screaming cauldron to raise blood pressure at umpires whilst scoffing crusty and fried potato and a pastry filled with brown and thick fluid and pieces of non-descript mammalian viscera condimented by tomato and SALT.
And this fuckstick tells me this with a straight face tells me this is a footpath despite too many signs with a stylised bicycle printed above the words SHARED PATH in navy print upon white background.
This guy is goodlooking and fit and forty-ish and is unable to read a fucking sign.
If I were able to discern why got so defensive about it I would probably not be taking off on this poor fella. He was just doing his job. I assume that is what he was doing - supervising the bin staff making sure they poured the contents of a small bin into a larger bin ready for that to be poured into a really big bin so it could be transported to a really really big bin that could be loaded into a medium scale truck for final deposit into landfill.
Goodbye.
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