Boy to World

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Fri, 14 Sep 2007 23:34:19 -0500

Somewhere, Elsewhere

I will no longer be posting at boytoworld.

Thank you to those people who sent e-mails asking for permission to see the blog when I pulled it down.

You can find me at my new blog, jotter notes.

New feed: http://feeds.feedburner.com/jotternotes

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Wed, 30 May 2007 02:47:25 -0500

AC Milan Give Reds the Blues

Around 5:30am my sister sent me an SMS: 'Well...I suppose on the bright side it's better than 0-3'. She was, of course, referring to the 2005 Champions League final between Liverpool and AC Milan that saw The Reds play both their worst and best halves of the season within the space of ninety minutes, eventually lifting the cup after Jerzy Dudek wiggled on his goal line -- a dance-move later named 'doing-the-Dudek' -- and saved two penalties. My reply was as much diagnosis as prognosis: 'I'm less optimistic at 0-1 than I was at 0-3. Pace needed on the left. Hope we don't use Crouch, but I'm prepared to let him redeem himself. D.'

On the stroke of half time Xabi Alonso put a lazy tackle on Kaka -- who went down easily a couple of times during the match -- to give Milan a free kick close to the box. It was probably too close for Pirlo -- the Italian dead ball expert -- to get a ball to swerve and dip over the Liverpool wall. He struck what looked like a banal shot towards the side of the goal Jose Reina was covering until it took a defelction of Inzaghi's shoulder and went hip-height through the middle of the goal.

Inzaghi claims it was a planned move. You don't want to believe him (and when you see he had his eyes closed you don't) because he's the player you love to hate. He scores the kind of goals you wish your defence would stop letting in. When he steps of the last shoulder of the defender as the ball is passed through you hope, expect even, that he will be called offside. A moments hesitation from all concerned, except Inzaghi, and you realise the whistle hasn't blown. He is one-on-one with the goal-keeper.

Reina held his position well, but it only required a good first touch from Inzaghi to cut him out. The only thing left was to watch the ball roll slowly, humiliatingly, towards goal, until it crossed the goal line. Liverpool were 0-2. Houdini could hold his breath for longer than the time they had left to escape from this predicament.

The first half was reason for some optimism if you supported Liverpool. Central mid-field was clogged and Pirlo and Kaka, the best players of the next generation along with Ronaldino, weren't allowed to spend too much time on the ball. Riise, Alonso and Gerrard all had shots on goal that sprayed wide or over the cross bar. Gerrard even got behind the defence, one-on-one with goalkeeper Dida, but instead of striking the ball his left foot he tried to turn his body and caress the ball around Dida into the opposite corner with his right. At that moment I could only think of Kaka's 'weaker-side' strike from outside the box in the qualifiers that hit the top corner of the netting. Dida palmed the shot and it was cleared by defence.

Liverpool came out chasing a goal in the second half with the same line-up that had stifled Milan's midfield in the first half and still gone in 0-1 down. Rather than Liverpool looking more dangerous, more desperate, Milan looked like the side likely to score. Kaka was turning tricks further up the park and stalwarts Maldini and Nesta had Liverpool's forwards in hand. Pirlo, almost without notice, was stringing passes together and putting players into dangerous positions. In short, their class was showing through.

Of the four sides that reached the semi-final stage this year Chelsea, Arsenal and AC Milan all had 12 or more players in their side that represented their country in last years World Cup. I'm not sure how many Liverpool had, but looking at the team list you can see they weren't representing the power-houses of world football. Within months of the Premier League Liverpool were destined to fight out third spot with Arsenal, a long way behind Chelsea and Manchester United (who were given an Italian lesson in footbal by AC Milan in the second leg semi-final). Liverpool's depleted strike-force (Kuyt is more a hard-working poacher than a striker, the pit-bull Bellamy, and six-foot-something Crouch who is no better using his head than Kuyt) failed to produce a goal until injury time in the second half. Substitutions were made, but not before AC Milan wrested the tempo of the game. Mascherano was substituted and, in turn, Kaka set loose. By the time Kewell came on Liverpool were 0-2, and AC Milan were resting back in their own half. Kewell played far enough up the park to run one-on-one at defenders, only to find more white than red shirts waiting in the box to repel his crosses. When Kuyt headed in from what appeared to be an off-side position there was hope for a last minute resurrection. Milan, understandably, made a substitution, but it was a surprise when the final whistle went a minute earlier than expected. Could Liverpool have sent it to extra time?

Like most Australian Liverpool supporters who got up early and had to be at work by 8am (the game starts at 5am) I was hoping it wouldn't go to penalties. It didn't. Of course, I wasn't hoping AC Milan would win, but you couldn't fault their effort and skill. Liverpool went to Athens to stop them playing the football they were capable of, and succeeded for forty-five minutes.

In the end the game provided the final piece of evidence that Liverpool was playing above their pedigree; getting by on good strategy and a small squad with a lot of heart. Benitez now has a mandate (and the billionaire American owners) to buy an elite strike force over the summer. If Liverpool makes it as far into the competition as they did this year, and with Benitez at the helm you suspect they will, I don't think I'll be supporting for an underdog team next year.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Tue, 10 Apr 2007 18:40:23 -0500

Life, friends, is boring

John Berryman
Dream Song 14:

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatedly) 'Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no

Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles,

Who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Tue, 03 Apr 2007 18:22:53 -0500

WOMADelaide 2007

WOMADelaide – World of Music and Dance Adelaide, for the uninitiated – has only recently turned into an annual event; and what a turnout, even compared to the huge crowds that flocked to Adelaide's Botanic Gardens last year. As me and my uncle (he played Annie Liebovitz to my Hunter S. on this intrepid adventure) picked up our press passes on the opening night we overheard a couple complaining that they couldn't buy a weekend pass. They'd driven all the way from Canberra, they said, and were flabbergasted that the weekend passes – not the more expensive daily passes, mind you – were sold out. Which serves to show that the people of Adelaide aren't slow: they know a hot ticket when it's selling. And that Canberra really is the cultural backwater of state capital cities, and deserves to be the butt of more jokes.
WOMADelaide has a laid-back family environment, as opposed to all the headlining summer festivals these days that are sponsored by sugar-caffeine-complex energy drinks – and they wonder why the kids go crazy.
On that note, I should apologise that some acts aren't represented in this review; I was probably digging into a curry, having a nap in the shade of a Moreton Bay fig tree, or else being held hostage by a well-dressed troupe of hippy children fluttering around the festival with their butterfly painted faces – no doubt exploiting the do-good-feel-good vibe and robbing strangers of their organic candy.

FRIDAY

The festival was opened by the self-deprecating Mahotella Queens, who have collected colour with age: not least their co-ordinated costume capes of bright orange, blue and red and rambunctious music and dance steps.
At this early juncture I should point out that WOMAD likes to see itself as part of a political forum. Many of the acts, such as the aforementioned South African female trio, have stories of political oppression and motivation in their music.
The protest fervour hit fever pitch when Blue King Brown took to the stage; an exponent of everything that a WOMADelaide crowds love: hand-clapping, dancing, and sing-along songs focused on empowerment. The Friday set, and the mirrored performance on Sunday, had a little trouble reproducing the urgency of their bombastic protest chorus release of 2006, 'Stand Up'. The keys occasionally scrambled some songs, but when the bass and drum kit came in heavy and deep, with flourishes from on ensemble percussion, order was restored.
Although there were more recognisable names on the list this year, one of the chief delights of WOMAD is rocking up and discovering – listen to the hippy vernacular coming out – something new. This is world music after all.
Lunasa were my find: intricate traditional Celtic music on fiddle, flute, uilleann pipes, with bass and guitar accompaniment. The speed and precision of the playing, even on the laments, was phenomenal. At one stage I turned to my uncle to replicate how fast the fiddler was fiddling the strings, quickly realising that my fingers – in comparison – were like limp hot dogs wobbling in the breeze. The mandatory Irish jig of the festival was done early in the piece, which, due to over-crowding at the prime dancing positions all weekend, would turn out to be my only chance.
Gotan Project graced the stage, all in white-chic couture, seeming almost austere. A rarity at WOMADelaide: a group that doesn't encourage hand-clapping and party fun-time sing-along. And genuinely appreciated; my hands were already red raw, and my nerves slightly jangled by the off-beat rhythms of some patrons. An amalgamation of old world instruments such as the bandoneon and violin with a club [beat] sound, Gotan Project was refreshing, but somewhat limited by their techno-tango ambitions. Singer Cristina Vilallonga delivered a sultry, but not powerfully sexy performance that one expects in the tango. And apart from a few spotlight solos the violin trio shanked their bows across the strings to syncopate with DJ (come conductor) Phillipe Cohen-Solal. The video installation was impressive, even if the lighting design became repetitive and seemed only to serve the purpose of foiling the plans of photographers. When two emcees were projected, then became apart of one the songs mid-set, I was initially impressed, but on reflection knew why the pre-recorded verbal battle had a blunt edge. The bass, it must be noted, was so deep that the speakers never fully recovered, emitting a slight buzz during quieter sections all weekend.
Femi Kuti and the Positive Force, however, were live and thrusting. Three – count them: one, two, three – African go-go dancers straddled the speakers in skimpy outfits, shaking their ghetto booty with more lovely-jubbly than Jamie Oliver could ever manage. As the sun went down, the six strong horn-section warmed up the chill evening. Femi Kuti was feeling the positive force: either getting some ritualistic high from the cumulative effect of the scene, or else controlled by some voodoo spirit imploring him to dance convulsively. When he took his shirt off and dowsed his chest with water I can't be certain; it was a natural progression of all the madness.
By this stage of the evening I knew the weekend was going to be a long haul and almost considered skipping Shivkumar Sharma & Rahul Sharma: 100 minutes of meditative discourse on the 100 string Indian folk instrument, the santoor. We were encouraged to sit down by the father and son duo; the former had a big white afro, the latter a mane of shiny dark brown hair. Upon sitting down I realised it would be quite difficult to get up, meaning I would sit through 100 minutes of continual crescendos, followed by a two second pause. When this first occurred at the 40 minute mark people clapped thinking the performance was over. But on they went. When the crowd number had dwindled, the performance, building up to a faux finale, actually ceased. I felt nourished, awake even, despite the fact that it was 1:30AM in the morning; 22 hours after I had woken up in Melbourne the previous morning.

SATURDAY

It was a slow start and slow afternoon of music appreciation.
Performing the songs of a well-toured first album, WOMAD was the swansong for Lior's 2005 release, 'Autumn's Flow'. Of most interest now is the follow-up second album: songs such as 'Sleeping in the Rain' and 'Sitting with a Stranger' – workshopped during Lior's rigorous touring schedule – hold plenty of promise, keeping the live acoustic-pop sensibilities of previous recordings.
After being disappointed that San Lazaro was LABJACD with a slightly re-jigged line-up and the same Cuban/hip-hop/jazz rhythms, I was hoping that Fat Freddy’s Drop would be something more… well, more. I don't know; something to shake me out of the doldrums. The soulful deep-dub was good, but what caught my attention was the trombone player in the horn section. He wore a salmon coloured polo-shirt stretched across his beer gut, tight white football shorts that kept his thrusts in check, all complimented by typical dark shades and a brimmed "jazz" hat. He didn't so much dance as stomp his feet and let the rest of his body jiggle. And he was the only visibly excited member in the band, and, it should be noted, members of the crowd got excited – one of the few times – when he peeled off the polo-shirt to finish the set in his sweat-stained singlet.
I must admit I'd never heard of drum virtuoso, neigh, genius, Bill Cobham, before seeing his name in the program guide. All my muso friends proceeded to educate me in vague terms mirroring the methods of teaching four year-olds about the theory of relativity: "trust me, it's important". I passed up the The Waifs for the one-off performance, and thanks-be that I did. The sharply dressed man who sat down at a drum-kit ensemble you usually see reserved for a heavy metal drummer wore a head-band to stop the sweat dripping off his clean-shaven scalp into his eyes. And then he played – for the complete hour – without a break. If I could explain what this man does on the drums I would be awarded a Nobel Prize for Literature: delicate, guttural, manic, and spare would be just some of the words included in this unachievable masterwork. My muso friends were so spun out they had to head to Spliff City to settle the experience in their memory. And maybe, sadly, the performance warrants a cliché: once in a life-time experience.

SUNDAY

I woke with dust in my joints and a fresh layer of skin across the bridge of my nose to be burnt. The problem with three day festivals is that they're three days long: you always go too hard at some stage, re-gather your thoughts at the first-aid tent, but never quite sort them out by the time you have to celebrate the long-awaited final night.
It was the first time I had seen The Waifs live, Apparently, Donna had forgotten most of the words to 'London, Still' on Saturday night. I'm a fan of The Waifs, but I'm still trying to forget that song. They didn't play 'Crazy Train' even though vocal audience members, who no doubt owned live recordings, requested it at more than one juncture. Seeing them live confirmed what I long suspected: guitarist Josh Cunningham is the cream on the cake of the Simpson sister's skills as songwriters, not to mention his own. Donna, of course, forgot some of the words to 'London, Still' again. Nobody minded; The Waifs are a charismatic live act that can please even when the grasp of their own material slips. Kev Carmody joined the group on-stage as they covered his song 'From Little Things (Big Things Grow)'. The crowd sang the dulcet tones of the chorus, and in reasonable tune; and though I suspect I have long since been diagnosed a cynic, I had goose pimples. There is a calm presence – hippy talk translation: calm = strange and magical – that comes over you when a large group of people sing together.
Major Disappointment: the All-Star Jam was all percussion mixed with some "pocket" bass lines and Tuvan throat singing. There was more Ben Walsh bravado than Billy Cobham skill on display – which would I prefer?
And I mustn't forget Augie March, who seemed confused, even more than Clare Bowditch did last year, as to how they had pulled a gig at WOMAD. Even after catching a live set, I'm still to be convinced – I was one of those to audibly groaned when 'Crowded Hour' polled number one in JJJ's Hottest 100 – and will withhold my opinion here, only mentioning that they will have to get used to teenage girls screaming for the aforementioned song when they play gigs outside of their normal pub environment.
When the sun went down on the final night the doof was turned up. Everyone seemed slightly confused. Most of the "younger generation" dancing along to the pop-doof hadn't paid for their tickets, and bore scrapes from climbing the fence. After standing on my feet all weekend, suffering heat-stroke, and craning my neck to get a glimpse of the stage from the very back of the huge crowds, I was ready to skip scientific testing when the Mad Professor waited until the song stopped completely to mention that his CD was for sale at the - wait for it – CD tent. Even if the Mad Professor could've provided cosy transitions in the early part of his set I was already in transit from festival, to pub, to bed.
Wrap my hands together so I can't clap, ice my feet, pour me a warm cup of water with honey and lemon, and get me on a plane back home.
WOMADelaide was, as always, too much to see and love and absorb in too little amount of time. They could add an extra day on to the long weekend, but they might suffer bliss-out overload, and there are too many people napping under the Moreton Bay figs already.

This WOMADelaide experience was supported by the Farrago Travelling Gypsy Grant; packed lunches and an endless supply of apples from my aunties; and a bean bag to rest my head, in a corner of the room of a friend's housemate's best friend.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Tue, 03 Apr 2007 06:37:51 -0500

I'm a Typewriter

Joan Acocella, The Typing Life, The New Yorker:

On the P.C., we use the same typing skills that we used on the typewriter, but the contact is not the same. We run our fingers lightly over the keys, making a gentle, pitter-patter sound. On the typewriter, by contrast, we had to stab, and the machine recorded our action with a great big clack. We liked that. (As Wershler-Henry tells us, a silent typewriter was put on the market in the nineteen-forties, and nobody wanted it.) The noise told us that we had achieved something. So, in larger measure, did the carriage return—another line done!—and the job of changing the paper—another page done!

[...]

Which brings us to the white page. Mallarmé spoke of the uncertainty with which we face a clean sheet of paper and try, in vain, to record our thoughts on it with some precision. As long as we were feeding paper into a typewriter, this anxiety was still present to our minds, and was revealed in the pointillism of Wite-Out, or even in the dapple of letters that were darker, pressed in confidence, as opposed to the lighter ones, pressed more hesitantly. A page produced on a manual typewriter was like a record of the torture of thought. With the P.C., the situation is altogether different. The screen, a kind of indeterminate space, does not seem violable in the same way as the page. And, because what we write on it is so effortlessly and undetectably erasable, the final text buries the evidence of our struggle, asserting that what we said was what we thought all along.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Tue, 03 Apr 2007 04:44:28 -0500

Interlude + Service

For a proper food review, I suggest you read Matt's entry.

It was a controlled lunge -- requiring a small preperation -- launched from three metres, allowing him to slide his fingers under the head of my empty wine-glass and remove it from the table. It was the kind of balletic performance, that, possibly, you're not supposed to glimpse at one of these high-flying molecular gastronomy joints; but service, whether effieceint or personable, can always make the difference between a simple meal at a restaurant, and a visit.

It was the second and last of my express lunches of the Food and Wine Festival, and as usual me and Matt talked about the ludicrous (harvesting clouds), scheduling (Okra and Vue de Monde), and whether more young people would indulge in the express lunch, or any lunch, at some of these more expensive places if they knew it only cost $30 and $40 for three courses. We decided, no -- we can barely afford to eat out more than we do, and we are better off than most.

Besides the balletic qualities of service our waiter also possesed the rouge-ish good looks of a French film star: which one exactly, is difficult to say. We agreed that he could, at worst, pass for an extra. And in some respects, a restaurant, directed by the head chef, collaborating with so many parties skilled in specific areas, is like a film; everything has to come together to make the visit memorable. But I'm getting off track.

The celery and almond soup was slightly over-salted and the flavours nothing more than you could manage at home. It was, however, light, and contained as much bubble and froth as a milkshake -- well, maybe I'm exagerating. My main: John Dory with sauce vierge. I jokingly said it was the clean super-deluxe molecular version of fish and chips; the pieces of fish sitting on islands of foamed basil potato -- some green bits symbolised but didn't represent any great presence of basil. Dessert was a yummy spoonful each of coconut icecream, mango and pineapple sorbets on a bed of nuts. The latter sorbet provided a pleasant wake-up call for the palette, like a cold shower on a warm summer afternoon. I only wish I knew what the nuts were. Luckily the spoons of Normandy and Italian Alps butter that came with the bread weren't still on the table; they were delicious enough to be tackled on their own.

Of course, nothing will top the small event that occured half way through the meal as the mains were taken from the table. The crumbs, however few there were, were combed into a small tray by the waiter. I may never get used to this, or someone dropping a napkin in my lap. Such silly little things that make you smile.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 08:12:32 -0500

The Deanery & The Undisclosed Bavarian Haunt

Melbourne may be buzzing with major event fever that is sending the State broke (who would really know) but the the Food and Wine Festival is concluding this weekend with the Flour Festival, Wine tasting on the Promenade, and wicked sunDay: a celebration of coffee and chocolate.

Last weekend, me and my sister -- somehow, Jo is a vegetarian -- ended up at a Bavarian carvery. Before the main meal the chef came out of the kitchen and grabbed the microphone off the heavily set scotch drinking accordion player and the hit-man electric guitarist and said, "I would like to thank Andy and James who sponsored the killing of the pig. It was killed just yesterday, coming in at 220lbs. And now," he took a breath and yelled, "The pig is coming! The pig is coming! The pig is coming!" And -- surprise, surprise -- out came the pig, carried on the shoulders of two large men who acted like stretcher bearers, parading the pig around the restaurant so that every person having a birthday could inspect the meal. The head was removed, but the carcass was decorated with sparklers and had, perched on its back, a teddy bear. The accordion player struck up a tune and sung, "Ticka-tucka, Ticka-tucka," and the whole restaurant chimed in, "Oi-oi-oi". It dawned on me that everyone around us had eaten here before. We both feasted on the ambiance of the place; neither of us felt the need to eat.

The Deanery, a trendy back alley eatery I visited on Wednesday, was slightly more reserved, the portions less grand, and weren't heralded-- like a WWF wrestler -- by the head chef as they were brought to our table. If anything, the service was so efficient I was worried our waitress could have pick-pocketed me -- doubtless, she didn't need to lift my last twenty -- without anyone being the wiser of richer. I retold the Bavarian experience to my housemates, Penny and Matt, if only to impress on them the high standards of excellence required to impress me. For the record, I had the lamb and the chicken; both were good, and would sound exquisite, if only I could remember each dish's accompaniment. The pinot offered warm flavours which I frivolously killed with a strong latte that kept me up 'til 5am the next morning.

Walking around the Flour Festival was enough to exercise some of the carbs I was stuffing in my mouth: savoury, a potato, goat's cheese and rosemary pizza; sweet, baklava of various shapes that were initially friendly offerings until I over-indulged, testing out my new fillings and making my head spin before the big come-down from the sugar high. I can only imagine, in the interests of good taste, how I'll feel after the endorphic balancing act of consuming wine, chocolate and coffee tomorrow.

It's taken me a little while to realise, but in Melbourne you really can spend most of your money -- besides rent, of course -- on food and art. Is this a bad thing? It is if you have an eye for the expensive and an interest in alfresco dining before winter turns the streets to puddles and the city into a sporting mecca.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Sat, 24 Feb 2007 18:40:16 -0600

Thinking of Deletion

Say Everything, Emily Nussbaum, New York Magazine:

Because the truth is, we’re living in frontier country right now. We can
take guesses at the future, but it’s hard to gauge the effects of a drug while
you’re still taking it. What happens when a person who has archived her teens
grows up? Will she regret her earlier decisions, or will she love the sturdy
bridge she’s built to her younger self—not to mention the access to the past
lives of friends, enemies, romantic partners? On a more pragmatic level, what
does this do when you apply for a job or meet the person you’re going to marry?
Will employers simply accept that everyone has a few videos of themselves trying
to read the Bible while stoned? Will your kids watch those stoner Bible videos
when they’re 16? Is there a point in the aging process when a person will want
to pull back that curtain—or will the MySpace crowd maintain these flexible,
cheerfully thick-skinned personae all the way into the nursing home?

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Tue, 20 Feb 2007 17:44:21 -0600

Where Nothing Happens?

Shadowed by Fear, Richard King, The Australian:

"Poetry makes nothing happen," Auden wrote in his elegy for W.B. Yeats. It may
make nothing happen but it makes what happens easier to bear. We're going to
need it in the remaining 93 years of this century, and I can think of no better
poet than Auden to accompany us on our journey.

Lady
by W H Auden

Lady, weeping at the crossroads
Would you meet your love
In the twilight with his greyhounds,
And the hawk on his glove?

Bribe the birds then on the branches
Bribe them to be dumb,
Stare the hot sun out of heaven
That the night may come.

Starless are the nights of travel,
Bleak the winter wind;
Run with terror all before you
And regret behind.

Run until you hear the ocean's
Everlasting cry;
Deep though it may be and bitter
You must drink it dry.

Wear out patience in the lowest
Dungeons of the sea,
Searching through the stranded shipwrecks
For the golden key.

Push on to the world's end, pay the
Dread guard with a kiss;
Cross the rotten bridge that totters
Over the abyss.

There stands the deserted castle
Ready to explore;
Enter, climb the marble staircase
Open the locked door.

Cross the silent ballroom,
Doubt and danger past;
Blow the cobwebs from the mirror
See yourself at last.

Put your hand behind the wainscot,
You have done your part;
Find the penknife there and plunge it
Into your false heart.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Tue, 20 Feb 2007 17:45:06 -0600

ses·qui·pe·da·li·an

1. Given to using long words.
2. (of a word) containing many syllables.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Fri, 09 Feb 2007 22:32:22 -0600

Illumination: Everything Happens, But Nothing Really Happens

Over the telephone.

'I'm reading Independence Day at the moment, but apparently it's the second book in the trilogy. They say that you can read them individually, and it doesn't matter too much, they're seperate enough from each other.'

...

'I'm half way through the book, and nothing has really happened yet, but it doesn't really matter. I'm sure it will though, at least, I've read it will. Even if it doesn't I'm still enjoying it. He's the only person to win the Pulitzer and PEN/Faulkner awards in the same year.' 'Yeah, I think there is a school for that. I think it's called hyper-realism: authors like Zadie Smith and Jonathan Safran Foer, and David Foster Wallace -- I've read articles on it, anyway.' 'He says he has read a lot of the contemporary fiction that is really minimalist, just describing what is happening. He says it's easy to read, but he's not interested in writing in that style.' 'He wants to include everything in the story, yeah.' 'I think you'd enjoy it though. He writes like you would write when you write a novel.' 'I'll have to read this novel I might write.' 'But there is the first book, The Sports Writer. Apparently he was going to quit his job and become a sports writer.'

...

'Have you decided what we can get you for your 21st birthday?' 'I'm still contemplating it. I'll let you know.' 'By the time you've decided it will be your 22nd birthday.' 'Yeah.' 'We'll have to make it into a combined present. Or maybe you can save them all up and we'll send you on a cruise boat for your 50th.' 'Yeah, I could accrue interest on my birthday presents.' 'Only at the rate of inflation.' 'Well that won't be too much then. But, no, I'm sure I'll find something for myself when I'm looking for something for you.'

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Fri, 09 Feb 2007 21:51:16 -0600

Beauty, the Body, and Sport

Federer as Religious Experience, David Foster Wallace, NY Times:

Beauty is not the goal of competitive sports, but high-level sports are a
prime venue for the expression of human beauty. The relation is roughly that of
courage to war.

The human beauty we're talking about here is beauty of a particular
type; it might be called kinetic beauty. Its power and appeal are universal. It
has nothing to do with sex or cultural norms. What it seems to have to do with,
really, is human beings' reconciliation with the fact of having a body.(1)

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Fri, 09 Feb 2007 07:08:34 -0600

Weekend Reading

Labor politician, Lindsay Tanner, writes on books that keep him amused during late night question time sessions.

Poetica: 10 years and 500 episodes strong, receiving well deserved recognition. One of two favourite episodes was a feature on Poetry and Jazz. The other, which I have previously linked to, was Siman Armitage's live performace at Adelaide Writers' Week last year.

The story behind Dr. Seuss and The Cat in the Hat. This confirms what I heard previously, that he only had a list of 200 words to comprise a story. 200 words!

Writing isn't a matter of course: An intriguing read as the author is in the same Honours course as me.

European Underclass: And where I ask, do we fit in?

We're all Big Babies, Michael Bywater.

We Will Soon be Lost for Words, John Humphrys:

Here's a taste. Take a few original lines from Macbeth:
Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand?
Compare them to the guide version:
Oooh! Would you look at that.

Bad Writing: If only Orwell could have imagined it. Oh wait, he did.

Poetry Daily: A poem a day keeps the nerves awake.

Of Thought and Metaphor, Peter Calamai: "to a very large extent communication is the use of metaphor," he says..."It could be that 95 per cent of our speech is metaphorical, if you go back far enough in language."

Language, Truth and... Wine, Colin Bower: "Nothing is ever knowable for what it is. Admit it, you can no more say what a taste is than you can say what a colour is or what a feeling is. "

Michael Dirda on Milan Kundera's The Curtain: Dirda compliments Kundera on quoting brilliantly, but he to has the knack of selection from the text.

When I interviewed Tracy-Anne from Camera Obscura I thought she was having a bad day, turns out making every answer seem difficult to come by is her style. In fairness, interviews are the falsest of human interactions.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Wed, 07 Feb 2007 05:25:29 -0600

The Good Book

"Every reader, as he reads, is actually the reader of himself. The writer's work
is only a kind of optical instrument he provides the reader so he can discern
what he might never have seen in himself without this book. The reader's
recognition in himself of what the book says is the proof of the book's truth."

- Marcel Proust

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Sun, 04 Feb 2007 17:39:01 -0600

The Supermodel School of Poetry, Brendan Bernhard:

There is something to be said for the silence of the page. On it, a poem —
three neat quatrains, say — can speak, indestructibly, to the eye, ear, and
mind.

But there is also something to be said for singing along. Recently I found
myself doing just that to a poem by, of all people, Emily Dickinson, as
performed by, of all people, Carla Bruni, the Italian ex-supermodel and
ex-girlfriend of Mick Jagger, Eric Clapton, and Donald Trump. Dickinson's poem,
"I Went to Heaven," is featured on Ms. Bruni's new album, "No Promises." On it,
she sets to music poems by W.B. Yeats, Dorothy Parker, Walter de la Mare, W.H.
Auden, and Christina Rossetti, among others.

Bernhard goes on to stress that this is not a new phenomenon in music. My own experience with integrating poetry into pop music is limited to my brief stint as Range (drive-time) presenter at Radio Adelaide -- we ran a segment unimaginatively titled, The Hip-Hop Challenge. Resident rhyme-fiend and linguist, MC Frost, was given a traditional poem (we went from Blake to Patterson, not forgetting Lawson) and asked to 'spit it', accompanied by beats. In a previous recording for my pop show (Snap, Crackle, Pop) MC Frost performed a duet with me, using e.e. cummings' poem may i feel said he and beats from Ratatat's song Wildcat -- it was nothing short of bizarre. I wish I could share it with you: MC Frost trying to counteract my burlesque camp delivery (I played the female part) with his hyper-masculine, pimp-the-bitches inflection that made the words ever more tender because he couldn't turn them away from their intended design:

may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she

(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she

(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)

may i stay said he
which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she

but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she

(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she

(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you're divine! said he
(you are Mine said she)

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Sun, 21 Jan 2007 02:46:16 -0600

Out at Right-field

It seems that I have again put myself through a hiatus from this blog without so much as a worry to its diminishing place in my life. To be more accurate and in-depth, something I have never much prided myself on in these entries: I have never showed enough consideration of the things that I enjoy in life, despite showing an interest in myself.

Not so long ago a thoughtful piece of advice was handed on to me about reading, namely that if you're not enjoying reading a book, no matter its worthiness in the Literary Canon, then there is probably a very good reason. Life informs books, and books inform life.

One of the chief joys of my life, even from a young age of playing baseball through the summer, was cricket. Why I have never advanced in the game passed the custom honed skills of a backyard cricketer will escape me until I take the plunge into club cricket.

Baseball, with it's rigid structure of rules and high pressure positions, is a fine sport, unless you are more interested in fielding out at right-field. I spent my first season of junior baseball out at right-field, casually watching the game, occassionally dashing towards the side-line fence to back up a throw from the in-field to the first base-man. It was a position similar to that of mid-off in cricket -- if a catch was every hit your way it would never have come cleanly off the bat (the good batters would hit the ball cleanly in the air to left field, bad batters, at this level, could barely pierce the infield), instead it would shoot upward and fall like a rocket run-out of enough fuel to leave orbit. I can still remember my first catch: hearing the ball fizzing in the wind, the taste of sherbet bombs still in my mouth from innings changeover, the uncertainty as I stood in the landing-zone (drop-zone). The ball was hit high enough that I had time to see the whites of my mother's eyes show on the sideline, the mouths of all the in-fielders open like they wouldn't do again until they kissed a girl for the first time, and the confident smile of Jai, the batter, who had the suitable bulk and swagger of a forty year-old bricklayer at the age of twelve, sure that the ball would hit the hard leather of the palm of my glove and drop down at my feet.

Concentration was not a problem. I had been up five hours before-hand watching, ball-by-ball, the cricket on the television. I had watched the two days before that in the same fashion. Training had conditioned my skills, all that was required was attention. The ball was destined to fall into my glove. And so it did. And I threw it back to the pitcher from right-field, not yet aware of what it meant to throw your arm out. I did that a couple of years later; you reach back for the simulated co-ordination of dynamic muscle power and all you feel is the permanence of the holy air of a church deep inside your arm-pit. Standing there, the game continuing on, I felt the surge of heat across my face, the breathlessness that only comes from smiling so hard the air can't get through your teeth.

Admittedly, I was a spectator in the batting box. I would watch pitch after pitch go by. Occassionally I would get a walk to first base if the pre-pubescent arm of the pitcher couldn't slow down the whiplash-catapult of his arm to throw three strikes above my knees and below my shoulders. I wonder, because I can't remember, what I thought when I was struck out without swinging at one single pitch. Were the eyes of my team-mates on me? Was Mum doctoring the score-sheet so that it wouldn't be known that I went down without swinging?

My first hit came after we spent a session hitting softballs (over-sized baseballs) that my Mum briskly underarmed to me. It was a rather innocuous connection with the ball the following Saturday that saw the ball trickle in between the pitcher and short-stop. Surprised by actually hitting the ball, and almost forgetting that I was required to run, I was thrown out by the short stop two metres shy of the bloated and red-haired first base-man, who promptly turned his look of fear and imminent failure into a smug smile, once he had caught the ball, which was meant to dis-arm my own sense of acheivement. I walked back across the field and sat at the end of the dug-out, encouraged, but not congratulated by my coach, who immediatly turned his attention to giving a signal to the next batter. I seem to remember the other three batters striking without so much as a foul-ball to their credit. Were we playing the best team? Had I hit the best pitcher in the U/12 division?

My modesty and affection for the game didn't last. The next year I was promoted into the in-field, occasionally catcher, and my bat and the ball weren't courting any more, they were going steady. We won the competition that year. The next year I shared duties between pitching and catching. My Mum umpired while I was pitching, which, now that I think of it, really should have been considered a conflict of interest by the opposing team -- if only I didn't start make snide comments between pitches that threw me off hitting the stroke zone. I hit my first home-run that year, clearing the fence of the scaled-down field. I remember standing at the home-plate a couple of years later and contemplating whether I could spit over that same fence.

Baseball wasn't the same on the actual size fields. The field wasn't so claustrophobic -- the third base-man needed a phone to get the thoughts of the cricket from the first base-man. You were at the bottom of the rung again, playing against boys who looked less like thier mothers and more like their fathers every time you got up-close to inspect their stubble. The summers were longer and hotter, you spent more time on your own in the out-field trying to catch balls flying over your head, propelled by the sudden on-set of the testosterone hormone. The girls, who had once doted on you, were constantly sneaking away to the places of the playground were you had never been with anyone else.

The field was too big, me too small, and the space to screw-up too infinite. I was no longer the centre of attention. Two years later I gave up baseball and started playing tennis.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Tue, 19 Dec 2006 07:35:26 -0600

Legal Romance

IMPORTANT NOTICE - The contents of this e-mail may be confidential and are intended to to reply to the cordial invitation for the individual(s) or entity(s) named herein. Any unauthorised use of the contents that may include the invitation of other parties not privy to such purchases of chic couture is expressly prohibited. If you have received the e-mail in error, please contact the sender by telephone immediately and then delete the e-mail before it implodes your inbox. We cannot guarantee by e-mail if this recipient intends to walk gaily to said place of employment or wait at his residence at a designated departure date and time. He can guarantee that all attachments are free of viruses that may damage or interfere with emotions, hardware or software. He may contain material, verbal or biological, that contravenes local custom, national or International law. Opening of this e-mail is acceptance on the part of the recipient(s) that he or she accepts full responsibility for my well-being and any associated software and systems, hereby absolving responsibility from Rom. Press Ltd.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Wed, 01 Nov 2006 07:39:29 -0600

Enjoy

Don't stare at the blank page too long -- it will make you constipated.
Don't proof-edit in red pen -- you'll be questioned by ASIO.

Remember that your head controls your fingers, and not the other way around. It will be very difficult to explain to your wife why charges are being brought against you for head-butting a type-writer.

If you're not enjoying this, stop it!

If you're not enjoying this think about elephant swimsuit models. But don't tell anyone what you're laughing about. Make yourself feel special.

Try to inhale your lips through you nose, and pull funny faces at small babies on buses. If you're not enjoying this stare at people's ears.

If you're not enjoying this don't call your mother -- its the middle of the day, she's busy, she'll work out you don't have a real job. She'll tell your father.

If you're not enjoying this go tell your wife to smile. As she gets angry hide the bills in the blender and forget about your credit deficit.

If you're not enjoying this make yourself a cup of coffee, take it outside, actually enjoy the taste of the beans, don't drink it for medicinal purposes, thinking it will make your thoughts come harder, faster, better in twenty minutes time.

If you're not enjoying this tell your wife you've ended the affair with your muse, and you want to sleep in the same bed as her tonight. Don't tell her she sold the vase with your grandma's ashes in it to settle your grandpa's funeral bill. She's been sleeping with the children in a tent-pitched out the back after you drove the family car through the front bedroom while you were sleep-walking. Sleep-driving. The only thing that saved your manhood was a punnet of choc-fudge nougat icecream.

If you're not enjoying this cure your cold with a chilli juice and cheap bourbon cocktail. Rim the glass with lighter fluid. Fill out a will before you do this. And take a family portrait with your beautiful family.

See, they still love you, even if you're not enjoying this.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Tue, 31 Oct 2006 07:28:43 -0600

His is a Tender Humour

At the start of the year I was lucky enough to catch English poet Simon Armitage live at Adelaide Writers' Week. I sat at the top of the hill, legs stretched out catching some sun, looking down on the crowd sitting under the marquee -- all elbow to elbow and mouths agape, staring up at the podium, in collective intrigue and delight as Simon read You're Beautiful, I'm Ugly.

Even if you don't especially seek out poetry, you will enjoy this recording aired by ABC's Poetica program:

Simon Armitage -- Live at Adelaide Writers' Week, 2006

If you can't listen to the complete program, at least listen to You're Beautiful, I'm Ugly, which is a third of the way along.

So you can find it, some lines:

You're beautiful because you're classically trained.

I'm ugly because I associate piano wire with strangulation.

...

You're beautiful because for you politness is instictive,

not a marketing campaign.
I'm ugly because desperation is impossible to hide.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Mon, 16 Oct 2006 11:28:29 -0500

The Blog of Revelations

I tend to massacre relationships by the way I start them.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Fri, 13 Oct 2006 09:27:19 -0500

B & B

Blondes have more fun,
Brunettes claim more victims.

Blondes crush your ego,
Brunettes crush your soul.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Wed, 20 Sep 2006 05:13:12 -0500

The Have and Have Not Read

I don't think I'm alone when I say that the pleasure of buying books often outweighs the pleasure of reading them. I sometimes visit my local second-hand haunt, wading through Mills and Boon and Agatha Christie to find five or so books (which roughly equates to $10) that I can and will buy, knowing full well I have no time to read them. I take them home and place them on my desk, which has become the waiting room before a book is given the full examination and found a place on my bookshelf.

I like to think some books are wonderful, without reading on, in fear that I might find that otherwise the case. One such book is The Service of Clouds by Delia Falconer. I saw her at Adelaide's Writers' Week earlier this year -- oh, and wasn't she lovely! -- and I spent more than the usual amount on a second hand copy of her book. But blowed if I've read past the first wonderful page... until now. This break I'm determined to finish the book. Expectations be damned!

But I thought I would share with you other books in my collection that I have not read. I have been scrupulous in compiling this list; if I have not read the text in full then it made the list.

Books I Own That Remain Unread:

Lucky Jim, Kingsley Amis
The Blind Assasin, Margaret Atwood
No How On, Samuel Beckett
Stories and Texts For Nothing, Samuel Beckett
The True History of the Kelly Gang, Peter Carey
Underworld, Don Delillo
Hard Times, Charles Dickens
Ragtime, E.L. Doctorow
Selected Poems, Rosemary Dobson
The Waterfall, Margaret Drabble
Stiffed, Susan Faludi
Lord of the Flies, William Golding
Inside Russia Today, John Gunther
Jude the Obscure, Thomas Hardy
Brave New World, Alduous Huxley
The Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce
America, Franz Kafka
The Castle, Franz Kafka
Poems, Keats
The Summer Before the Dark, Doris Lessing
Rush, Daniel Mason
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, Carson McCullers
Europa, Tim Parks
Mahjar, Eva Sallis
Selected Poems, Wallace Stevens
The Andy Warhol Diaries, Andy Warhol
The Riders, Tim Winton
Great Strories of Mystery and Suspense Volume I, II, III, Various Authors.
To The Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf

31 books. 49 texts. Some of these books contain more than one text.

If you make a list of your unread books, and are unashamed to post it, then leave a link in the comment section.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Sun, 17 Sep 2006 08:53:20 -0500

To Begin...

There seemed no way to start this e-mail, so I will re-collect a dream I had, nigh on a fortnight ago:

After some attained success through no effort, where I had magically acquired a Mills & Boon contract and kept it secret from everyone around me, I moved to the Italian countryside, ingratiating myself with the local community, eating out every night and retiring to my home just outside the village, sometimes drunk, often alone, the conversations (I converse so well in Italian) still making me laugh, even though I will not remember when I sit at my reserved table the next evening, with another keraf of vino in front of me and another hearty meal to be eaten, and the restaurant owner, a charming and gloriously fat old woman suggesting I should marry her virginal daughter, her husband, a reserved man with a stern smile neither consenting to my presence in the village or to his wife's offering of their child, though she is no girl, her hips move in the way only a woman's mind could control them, and she likes me, my foreignness and strange looks, and even my laugh, which has become even more muted than when I was young, more of a breathing smile, and we marry, but she doesn't move her things into my home, or take much interest in changing the way I live, because, as she sees it, I have become accustomed to the village, and she has known the village long enough to become dissatisfied and in love with it again, and even going to Rome, which we do on occasion, just makes her want to come back to the village, to peer down its side streets and walk into people's homes without knocking on the door, but she doesn't want to learn anything from me; learning English is of no interest, she does not enjoy the English language much, she doesn't even want to cook for me, though she cooks at the restaurant where I still eat at every night, conversing more with her mother than her, as she works in the kitchen with her father, quietly attending to my meal, and after I have eaten she washes the dishes before kissing her mother and father goodnight and walking me home, a few steps ahead of me as I slouch up the hill, collapsing in my living room, which has a few items of furniture, and then expecting that we will make love when I shower and feel refreshed and ready. But I kill her. I don't know how, the action is obscured but the thought was enough to get the job done, and I grind her down to a meaty pulp and fertilise my garden with her, and all seems alright, but the dogs feast on my garden patch all night, and I can hear their jaws slobbering, the frantic breathing between...

Obviously, I have taken certain liberties to convey this to you. The next night my dream was far simpler: Me and Humphrey Bogart walked around San Fran wasting people.

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Fri, 15 Sep 2006 04:07:40 -0500

Links to the Outside World

Jonathan Safran Foer's article, 'Emptiness': "I started collecting empty paper soon after I finished my first novel, about two years ago." (via kottke.org)

Booker prize field is trimmed and already there is a clear favourite. I predict outsider M.J. Hyland to win by the skin of an esteemed author's praise.

Charlie Kaufman's new script: 'Synecdoche'.

Susan Sontag's journal entries:

"On Keeping a Journal. Superficial to understand the journal as just a receptacle for one's private, secret thoughts - like a confidante who is deaf, dumb and illiterate. In the journal I do not just express myself more openly than I could to any person; I create myself."

noreply@blogger.com (David) — Wed, 06 Sep 2006 07:58:06 -0500

Bustin' Beats

Lately I've been getting into beats. Much more so than lyrics, vocals or the melody.

For some beat therapy go over to the I Guess I'm Floating blog.

Otherwise, check out Ratatat or Super System.