Found this site today – books on the blockchain. Before you roll your eyes, this blockchain payment system is applicable to established ‘traditional’ publishers too.
Click the picture to find out more.
John Kinsella and I have written some poems in support of the men wrongfully detained on Manus Island, by the Australian government. Please have a read by clicking on the picture below, and share if you feel inclined. Thank you for your interest.
Hi. While I'm out hiking on the PCT (search for me on instagram) an article I wrote about walking The Shikoku Island Buddhist Pilgrimage has been published by Cordite. Check it out here: http://cordite.org.au/essays/concrete-a-shikoku-pilgrimage/
This interview is the most comprehensive I have been part of to date; discussing walking, poetry, environment, music, ecology and death.
A pearl has no meaning to the pig, says South Korean director and writer Kim Ki Duk. His 2002 film Spring Summer Autumn Winter …and Spring is an anecdotal portrayal of time. Phrases, movements, events and conflicts circle back on themselves. People are shown as unwitting participants in a world with its own logic. Buddhist and mystic symbolism underpin and overlay the action. We learn about the characters through their actions, not what they say. The film requires little dialogue to convey its meaning.
In the opening sequence a young boy teases a frog, a snake and fish by tying a rock to them. The little creatures struggle. His grandfather – we can only assume they’re related – watches the kid torture the animals. That night while the kid is asleep the grandfather ties a rock to the boy. When he wakes up he’s distressed and is told the rock can be removed once he has seen to it that the rock is removed from the frog, snake and fish. If, by this time, any of the creatures have died then the boy will live with this burden. The boy drags the rock around the great lagoon where they live. The frog is alive. The Fish is alive. The snake has died overnight. The boy is distraught. The boy has a heavy heart.
If the grandfather had not disciplined the boy then we can assume he would have continued on in life thinking torturing animals was okay. We have seen already that it is in the boys nature to be cruel. Discipline is a way of altering that nature.
Later on in the film, the grandfather paints the heart sutra on the deck of the house that floats on the lagoon. The young boy, now a man, has returned, a fugitive after having fled the home with a girl who was visiting. Viewers do not witness this, but the young man murdered the woman one night when she sleeps with another man. The boy returns home and when detectives find him the grandfather requests that before he leaves the boy carve out the heart sutra with a knife.
The rationale of the film dictates the Buddhists wishes are respected and the detectives wait all day until the boy has finished carving. Only then can the boy begin healing his heavy heart, that began with the murder of the snake, some fifteen years before the murder of the woman. The return of the heart motif shows that the master played a small part in the boys downfall. As Phillip Larkin wrote: Your parents, they fuck you up, even if they don’t mean to, they do.
There were three of them sitting around a table at a diner. Don Quixote, Sancho and Pockets were sitting around a table in a diner that served good ice-cream, they had discovered; but not strawberry ice-cream they had discovered, to their disappointment. Pockets, which was not her real name, had no sense of humour and even when she ate nearly all of her ice-cream cone and the ice-cream exploded out the bottom of the cone and went all over her face and blouse and table she didn’t laugh, even though Don Quixote and Sancho were laughing at her she didn’t laugh along, instead she went to the bathroom and cleaned herself up. When she was in the bathroom cleaning herself up, Sancho looked at Don Quixote and Don Quixote looked at Sancho. They both knew what their looks meant and Sancho asked Don Quixote why, on a Friday night, they were eating ice-cream instead of drinking at a bar somewhere. Don Quixote replied by saying that all Sancho ever thought about was drinking beer, and eating, and that perhaps he might need his strength for the trail and the adventures they would encounter. Sancho said that sugar is bad for you, just as bad as alcohol and that people eat sugar all the time, they’re addicted to sugar and they don’t even realise they can’t go a day or two without a sugar hit.
Ken lay awake, content in his sleeping bag, and thought about how this short journey was beginning to end. He imagined boarding the plane tomorrow and how the inflight procedures were identical to the ones he witnessed on his way out here, but would now feel in reverse, as if all that had been built, the friendships made and landforms experienced, were being unravelled. He would arrive at the airport early, he thought, putting on his beanie, and sit at a bench and try to summarise his last twelve days on paper. He knew this trip was not about details. Twelve days was not long enough to get a feel for the subtleties of Alice Springs, the West Macdonnell Ranges and Uluru. It was too late to learn even a single word of the Arrente language, he told himself, but he’d be better prepared next time, if there was a next time. In less than twenty four hours the plane would taxi to the take off position and a baby would be screaming and the professionals would be reading, and he’d remember a critical comment a hiker made that allowed him to realise that when you spend most of your time traveling you rarely spend long enough with anyone to see the nasty side of their character. Lying on his back on the inflatable mattress that had developed a slow leak, Ken looked up at the stars and the tops of the ghost gums and the outline of the gorge falling to the sandy riverbank where he lay, and he thought to himself that we allow ourselves to roam where nothing is sacred, that we’re afraid of going to sacred places for fear of spoiling them with our presence and that it’s better to have been to a sacred place without knowing it is sacred, that the landform is merely a landform where no rituals and stories had taken place. That way you avoid being culpable of destroying the magic of the place. The rituals we do hear about, Ken repeated to himself, tell an ancient story of ownership through having lived there, and you cannot know the stories that make these places unless you live there for a long time.
A kind of interloper, Ken concluded he did not have knowledge enough of these stories to respect the places as they should be respected. He longed to be given the truth of the situation, instead of having to determine that truth for himself, for then he felt he could understand clearly what was the admirable way to behave and the best possible way to look after the land. As he lay out in the open this ambiguity kept him awake and he knew that he never fell asleep on his back and that he might sleep for an hour or so on tomorrow’s flight home.
Ken’s thoughts, as always, were about the next day, the next passage that awaited him and as he watched the flight path of a plane overhead he imagined himself the next day reading the inflight magazine with the grey kangaroo on the front and he would read through from cover to cover the mining advertisements and the articles about miners and then he would look out the scratched window overlooking Alice Springs and know he’d been down there somewhere and that when he was there he could not see the shape of the river as it cascaded between the ridges and conglomerates and he could not know, as he later read, that no water had flowed there for hundreds of centuries when the entire region was submerged in salt water. Now when the rains fell only puddles formed on the surface of the riverbed and a subterranean stream may trickle slowly on top of the cap rock. Ken pulled his sleeping bag upwards to allow his body enough space to rotate so he could lay on his side and the mattress made a crinkling sound and then he sensed movement under him and he sat up and saw in the depression he had dug where his canister stove sat, the sand turning to a darker colour. He knew water was rising all around him and at first he thought of collecting his belongings and moving to higher ground, the liquid now filling the spaces between the ridges of his mattress, yet he could still feel the ground firm underneath him. He unzipped the sleeping bag and pulled his legs up to his chest to remove his feet and he threw the sleeping bag on top of a large boulder nearby, and at first he was scared but he soon realised the water was not flowing downstream but coming straight up out of the earth and now the mattress was holding his weight and keeping him just below the surface of the rising water. Leaves and twigs circled around him and his empty water bottle, shoes and headlight floated nearby. With his legs in the water and his lower half now soaked Ken grabbed the headlight and pressed the on button and looked below as his feet could no longer touch the ground he could see the groundsheet held down with rocks. In the opening of his backpack he shone the torchlight on his notebooks and at first he was sad to see that they were now ruined, saturated with clouds of blue ink spiraling to the surface. He knew the notes for his stories were now ruined, and a condensed sense of the effort he put into compiling them now struck him, and he winced and shook his head in disappointment, and from the surface of the water he collected his small lighter and put it in the fold of his beanie to dry. A whining from a dingo could be heard and Ken made no hissing noises to stop her.
In June of 2014, I took two buses and a train from my home in Fremantle to the trail head of the Bibbulmun Track in Kalamunda. In rain and a leaky jacket I walked for three hours to Hewitt’s Hut, arriving in the dark. Already at the hut was my friend, his brother and two friends of theirs I had never met before. My friend was walking the entire track. His mates had driven in as close they could to the hut. They had brought eskys full of alcohol, meat for the bbq and mobile phones to watch AFL on.
This story appeared in Rumble Strip.
Sorcha told me that whenever she walks in the wind blown streets of Fremantle, she always tends to think of the place underwater. She said she doesn’t know exactly how the buildings will change, but some will have a permanent watermark and their basements and ground floor will become fish tanks. The warming air is warming the oceans and melting icesheets and sea levels are predicted to rise as much as one point one metres over the coming decades and if the seas rise a salt water triangle beginning at the northern end of Packenham street, to Bathers beach, to Little Creatures and then up to South Terrace will all be inundated, the waters rising and falling with the tide each day. The skatepark that runs south-east along the line of the train tracks within the grounds of the Esplanade park will have water rising half way up the half pipes and filling the bowls. This, she said, as if she had been pondering the image for some time, will be an unexpected reversal, as swimming pools are usually drained to make bowls for skateboarding.
Sorcha said you can feel the planet getting hotter and nowadays nobody goes out during the middle of the day and just last night, the temperature rose two point five degrees from 11pm to 1am and has continued to rise all morning until only the brave or those with air-conditioning venture out. The heat, especially standing in direct sunlight, is hot enough to burn the dash board of cars and many arguments have erupted about the apparent ownership of shaded parking bays closest to the markets or to the Woolstores shopping centre. These violent outbursts directed at complete strangers occur daily and onlookers are seen filming the incidents on their mobile phones to upload on social media. I too, began Sorcha, witnessed one of these outbursts, when a woman with black hair and black clothing had been attempting to reverse into a parking bay and a man snuck into her spot near a paperbark tree. When the passengers of the mans car opened their doors they were ambushed by the woman, speaking in Cantonese, which they understood, except for the driver who instructed the woman to get lost, before making his way through the steaming vehicles to the food court. The irate woman who missed her spot left her car stationary in the middle of the car park causing a traffic jam and all kinds of honking from other drivers. As the passengers were following the man to the food court they spotted another car leaving and stood at the entrance of the bay until the angry woman was able to slowly reverse her late model Mercedes into the spot and hastily throw her foil sun protection screen inside the windscreen and secured it with the visors. I often wonder, said Sorcha, if people suddenly find themselves at a breaking point and lose their shit one day or live their lives going from one confrontation to another without realising.
Yesterday I finished reading Extinction by Thomas Bernhard. The novel took about two weeks for me to read and during that time I have taken the train to Armadale, walked about 100km on the Bibbulmun track and traveled around north east Bali. My copy now has dried chocolate on the cover, some black residue on the outside from my girlfriends purse, a few dog ears and various notes in different coloured pen throughout. The Vintage edition has a pretty poxy cover but the contents inside make up for that.
I wasn’t looking for any technique or angle in particular as I read. Extinction is a novel I was able to sit back and enjoy and let the author take me on a ride through the main characters psyche. The novel is one long monologue inside the ideas and thoughts of Franz-Josef Murau after he receives a telegram that his parents and brother have died in a car accident. It feels more appropriate to say the novel is separated into two paragraphs than two chapters. The first chapter is one paragraph and the second chapter is one paragraph. There are no breaks. At first this seems a little daunting but after fifty or so pages you get used to it and by the end you start to wonder why all books are not written like that. Actually, Extinction is the kind of book that is unique. Without the paragraph breaks you can see how this would force the writer to examine closely how enmeshed each of their ideas are – how interlinked each event and scene is and if they are not seamless, more words need to fill out the gaps until the bridge is crossed.
With the long paragraphs and deep psychological examination of the characters you can draw comparisons to Austerlitz by Sebald. In an interview Sebald acknowledges Bernhard as an influence. [At the 14:50 section of this interview] The influence on Austerlitz from Extinction becomes clear once you start reading both. Sebald calls Bernhard’s unique form of narration ‘periscopic’, where we receive the story through the voice of one character inside of another of another. The sentences in Austerlitz are much longer than those found in Extinction. I’m not sure which novel influenced Bernhard to write Extinction, but finding out will be a great pleasure for me.
Sebald is much more tender with his characters, but both authors are uncompromising in their pursuit of challenging the power structures of our society that lead us away from being kind to one another. You could argue that Extinction deals with the aftermath of WW2 more directly than Austerlitz, but I would prefer to say that WW2 is more of an open wound to the character Franz-Josef Murau, than Austerlitz. Bernhard is more about subterfuge from within, whereas Sebald is more about personal understanding around the periphery.
I remember reading a few years ago in one of the many how to write fiction books, that your characters should have attitude. Murau, the main character of Extinction, has a lot of attitude. By attitude I mean the character has convictions and is not afraid of sharing them. This attitude will put a lot of people off Extinction. But this is what I liked. We are told that having strong convictions can be isolating, because you can be shown to be a hypocrite, or you never know what lead these other people to behave the way they do. Just because you don’t necessarily agree with someones convictions at least they have convictions, and it is this premise that appears to underline Bernhard’s work.
You could say Extinction is an exercise in ridiculousness. It is ridiculousness that verges on the hilarious. I’m not sure I would keep reading if the voice of the novel continued on ranting and ranting without dipping into the ridiculous from time to time, to remind us that he’s taking us to the extremities of his consciousness – as far as that can conveyed through words on a page. The rant, or stream of consciousness, unravels in a cascading swirl where the topic of discussion is repeated or referred back to until the subject is covered sufficiently. You’d think the repetition would be annoying, but because it works on a microlevel it reads more like a poem. Where subjects are recovered on a macro level they are enlivened with a new context so that you’re seeing them in a new light. I’ll try to quote a section that covers the elements I’ve just identified – periscopic narration, attitude, ridiculousness, swirl, repetition:
“My parents had told me that the village was a dangerous place, but I discovered that it was not in the least bit dangerous. I thought nothing of going in and out of all the doors and looking through all the windows. My curiosity knew no bounds. My brother never accompanied me on my expeditions. He’s been down to the village again, he would say, and look on shamelessly, not batting an eyelid, as I was punished for my offense. My mother would beat me with a rawhide that she always kept in readiness, and my father would box my ears. I had many whippings, but I cannot remember my brother being whipped or having his ears boxed. I was interested in anything that was different, but my brother was not, I thought, examining the photo of him in his sailboat on the Wolfgangsee. I once told Gambetti that my brother was always an affection seeker, but I never was. I tried to explain what I meant by the term. At mealtimes my brother was always silent and never dared ask a question. I constantly asked questions and was reprimanded by my parents for asking the most impossible questions. I wanted to know everything – no question must remain unanswered. My brother was a slow eater; I always ate hastily, still do. I always walked fast, wanting to reach my destination as soon as possible; my brother had a slow, one might almost say deliberate, gait. As for my handwriting, it was fast and careless and, as I have said, almost illegible, whereas he always wrote in careful, regular hand. When we went to confession he always spent a long time in the confessional, whereas I was in and out in no time. It did not take me long to list the many sins I felt obliged to confess, while he took at least twice as long over the few he had committed.” p44.
Some eighty pages later Bernhard returns to the rivalry between Franz-Josef and his now deceased brother Johannes. This time Franz-Josef is looking at some pictures of his family as he tells Gambetti:
“My brother, unlike me, was a calm person: at Wolfsegg I had always been the restless spirit, but he was the soul of calm. My parents always referred to him as the contented one and to me as the malcontent. If we got in trouble, it was always my fault, never his. They believed his explanations, not mine. If, for example, I lost money that had been entrusted to me for some reason, they refused to believe I had lost it, despite all my asseverations. They preferred to believe that I had pocketed it and only pretended to have lost it, but if my brother said he had lost some money they believed him. If he told them that he had lost his way in the wood, they instantly believed him, but if I told the same story they refused to believe me. I always had to justify myself at great length and in great detail. On one occasion my brother pushed me into the pond at the Children’s Villa. Whether intentionally or not, he pushed me in while passing me at the edge of the pond, where the wall is not wide enough for two people to pass. I had the greatest difficulty keeping my head above water and not going under. I actually thought I was going to drown, and I also thought that my brother might have pushed me in on purpose, not inadvertently out of clumsiness. This thought tormented me as I struggled for dear life in the pond. My brother could not help me without risking his own life. He naturally made many attempts, but failed.” p127
Maybe you have to read the entire book but I found this passage quite funny. I think it’s the language that gives away that the writer is having a laugh. What I like is that the novel isn’t packaged into sections. Bernhard focuses on making each individual scene as vivid as possible and lets one scene flow into the next without regard to how it fits within the overall scheme of the book. You could argue that the pond drowning passage could flow on from the earlier passage on page forty four. But Bernhard is able to reference back to the contrast between him and his brother with just a sentence or two, a topic that had been canvassed over a number of pages beforehand, and then continue on with an event that had come to his mind. This is how our minds work when we stare out the window in a reflective mood. At first we’re going over old ground but then something may come to us that we hadn’t thought of earlier.
As a writer do we then package the same subjects together or write about them as they occur to us? Bernhard could have separated the the book into smaller sections titled Johannes, Mother, Father, Sisters, The Wine Cork Manufacturer and so on, but this would detract from the swirling nature of the prose. The way the characters interlink is masterful. Without giving too much away, the juxtaposition between the values and apparent principles of the characters all coming together for the funeral elucidates such a realistic feeling inside of me that I understood exactly where Franz-Josef was coming from, why he acts the way he does and why he has such an attitude. Imagine having to greet Nazi SS officers at your fathers funeral because they were ‘friends’.