it is through the study

and practice of illusion that we learn the art and science of the

truth, and this philosophy has proved immensely effective.

It suddenly struck him, for instance, that the definition of a

complex machine was one that was five-dimensional—time

defining the fourth, psychology the fifth. Mind transcended

time, the same way that language tried to, and could indeed

transcend space.

Lloyd Sitturd is an unusual six year old at any time in history, but particularly in the year 1844 in the hotch-potch attempt at national definition called ‘America’.

‘America’ is a strange place. It is filled with disparate groups of wandering souls looking for something to latch on to, some hope to propel them forward. People are lawless, and godless, trying to establish order in a barren wilderness filled with strangely spiritual savages. The time is ripe for a great force to move in and exert its will. The only question is, which force will it be?

Lloyd was young when his parents first saw the signs of how unusual he was. For his mother, Rapture, Lloyds constant communication with his dead twin sister was understandable. His intelligence that alienated him at school is more difficult to manage. For his father, Hephaestus (a carbon copy of his Greek God namesake) the boy is a mixture of wonder, pride and some jealousy. How is it that he is able to make these machines that are far more elegant and functional than anything his father could conceive? And what is the dark streak that runs through his only child, that had him perform a vivisection on a rabbit while it was still living?

When Lloyd’s strange intelligence, his mothers witchcraft, and his fathers debt plunge the family into dire straights they feel hopeless. At this crucial moment they receive a letter from Hephaestus’ brother, begging them to cross the country to be with him, no matter how dangerous a journey this may be, and start a new life in Texas. For three people searching for a miracle, Texas becomes a talisman of hope, a promised land, and a justification for a perilous journey of escape from a life they can’t manage and a world that doesn’t understand or appreciate them.

And thus begins the unusual journey of Lloyd Sitturd, a six year old who may or may not be six forever, and his bewildered parents who are victims of a life they don’t understand and want nothing to do with.

Enigmatic Pilot is largely the story of Lloyd and his experiences. Adeptly hidden in its pages, however, is an examination of the thing we call history, a philosophical examination of the concept of time, and the way time is encased in language.

It is also an examination of a certain kind of America, the relationship between human beings and mechanistic science and the wonders of magic. It is a blurring between life as we see and touch it and the life we can feel, intuit and use to connect to other human beings. It is a road story, of three individuals caught up in a battle of the gods that has been raging through time. It is the story of the human quest for its own immediacy through scientific knowledge.

Enigmatic Pilot is a series of questions that the author wants us to ask ourselves about time, its relationship to experience, and its importance in defining and creating our lives through history.

Kris Saknussemm has put together three separate books that form three separate aspects of Lloyd Sitturd’s development from a boy into a ‘man’. In some ways Enigmatic Pilot is a coming of age story. Lloyd is formed and shaped by the people who come into his life. Some of these are there to guide him, others are there simply as part of a seemingly random occurrence, but all the people Lloyd meets in his life go toward forming him, defining him, and ultimately, revealing him to himself. The narrator informs us regularly of historical events being formed and shaped at the time and in the place Lloyd walks, as if to constantly remind us that history is alive and interpreting us just as we think we can interpret it. Time stands still for Lloyd, the man-child, just as it appears to stand still in our own experience of it.

However, the rush of events is always around us, and despite our own relationship with our own evolution, and our own desire to comprehend it, time is obeying its own rules.

He thought back to Mother Tongue’s remarks about Spiro of

Lemnos, the Enigmatist who had glimpsed more deeply than

all others into the mesh of things—all that was hidden in plain

sight.

Enigmatic Pilot is set in a time in American history of great industrial, political and social change. Another great theme of this book is the relationship between life, death, machines and power. There is a tension being drawn by this talented author at all times, between the connection we have with all things (people) past (history, the shadows and the ghosts of what has gone before us) as well as the mechanistic future being built by our own hand; the human striving toward itself, its endless demand for the realisation of its own creative spirit. Machines attach themselves to flesh in this world. Time stands still and history is made out of deliberate forced action. People are purchased and sold, men are deformed or maimed and women are both the vehicles for the realisation of the mysterious and the agents for salvation. Nothing is as it seems, and the answer to everything lies within.

It also came to him for the first time that if the complicated

workings of something like a plantation—a machine both built

by humans and including them as critical components—could

be understood as a machine, working within a network of other

similar machines to form a bigger, still more complicated machine,

then there were two contrary but very pregnant implications.

First, the notion of mechanism, as in the mechanistic philosophy

he had become acquainted with in Schelling’s bookshop—

as in a reductionist strategy—was categorically

deficient, if not totally wrong.

Second, the far more interesting

idea that such a thing even as multifaceted as a plantation

could be rendered diagrammatically, as could any machine. It

was just a question of what the hierogram looked like. Then he

said to himself, “I meant diagram.”

Imagery and language are used by the author in this exciting book, to transport and engage the reader in a partnership of creativity that brings all the characters alive. Enigmatic Pilot relies heavily on the myths and legends we are used to – from Lloyds crippled ‘fallen-god’ father, to a crucial Icarus-style flight toward the sun that ends in tragedy. Age old themes that we recognise are given fresh life as we seek to examine science versus faith, the seen versus the unseen, evidence versus the power of the talisman, real evil versus supernatural evil, and the redemptive power of love.

Names are used in a Dickensian fashion – the holder of all wisdom is called Mother Tongue, and the hapless undertaker who murders his wife as she she takes his life is Othmieal Clutter. There are more shades of Dickens as a graveyard dwelling Miss Havisham style ‘Mother Tongue’ seeks to use the young boy for the realisation of her vision of truth; elements of the realist grandeur of a nineteenth century Russian novel as the young protege is educated by those who cross his path – with more than a touch of Jules Verne to excite and spice up the plot. People are old beyond their years or young beyond their years, trapped within the walls of time but never defined by it.

It struck them all that every camp is made amid graves. It is just unknown who lies buried.

Amongst all of this is rich and often witty language, lush in its descriptive quality (pregnant drops of rain) filled with the enigmatic qualities of its young protagonist (Marked where the world becomes mind. Where the world becomes time. Where the ghosts become flesh).

I read Enigmatic Pilot almost in one sitting. I found it difficult to put down. This exciting journey, nicely sliced up into the vignettes we recognise in life, was not one I will forget in a hurry. Highly recommended.

Kris Saknussemm

The Babylonian Trilogy, as the title suggests, is a book divided into three parts.  Each of the three parts deals with the large themes of existence: Life, death, poetry and the pieces in between. Each novel is different from the others in essence, although the reoccurring ideas and the intense characterisation give access to the scope of what is examined within its pages. The broad ranging themes remain the same; although the characters take the reader on a journey into unknown territory one inevitably finds a little piece of oneself in every character.

Poetry is the primary access mode throughout the three books, to the many different characters. Poetry, however, is not the sweet feathered luxurious cape we wear today. Poetry in Babylon is demanding. It is subversive, snake like and it oils its way through people’s lives. In some characters it heals, and in others it demands huge sacrifice. In each of the three books the artist (always a male reminding us of the actual author) is unsuccessful and confronted by their art in some way. In book one; it is the short story writer and poet who gave in to his ego drive when he receives another rejection slip. In the second book it is a man caught in the space between life and death that uses poetry to calm and resurrect himself. But poetry finds him through disturbing dreams and images and phantasies that threaten to compromise his grip on the clarity of right and wrong. In the final book the poet is the one who overdoses, declaring all along that the dope was his inspiration source. Poetry is not a commodity that the government can own, that capitalism can purchase or that creativity can control, though it is seen as such. We learn early on that the ‘other’ that kills god may well be poetry itself and poetry is mad; A coat of many colours mad.

You are wondering who I am, perhaps.

Haven’t you understood yet? I am the colors in this text, the

mysterious chapters and the thread between the words. I am the

sound of the turning of the page, and the silence of your reading.

I am with you and within you. I am above and under. I am the

song of the trees and the satellites’ radio waves, the laughter of

Lilith and the wind on the sea. I am the witness and the actor, the

culprit and the innocent. I am the last face you see when you fall

asleep, and the first one you meet in the morning. In the paper

theatre of your existence, I am the candle which sets everything

on fire, and watches you crumple and turn to ashes. But I am also

the one who takes you by the hand and leads you out of impossible

situations. I am the ink in the pen and the bullet in the

chamber, the sigh of relief and the cry of despair. I have no name,

but many nicknames, of all of which my favourite is, of course, the

narrator.

The first book deals with many different characters. Death is an overarching theme as the country is at war. We know this through the eyes of a soldier trying to make sense of where he is at, and a journalist and her hapless cameraman, both of whom are searching for the perfect story about death. This inevitably leads to more and more stories about death and ultimately to the confrontation with death that we all must face. But this is the world of Babylon. The stars of this first novel are not all human or human-like creatures. One is a dog that morphs into any other creature it chooses to be when confronted by the limits of its ability to control its own world.   Another is a god-made creature that falls in love with a goddess and demands bloody revenge from god when he strikes her down in a characteristic fit of jealousy. Another character is colour itself demanding its own recognition as an object or entity, finding its place in the world.

Every story must end, for the end is always a new beginning.

Everybody had seen her reports on the war, and the buzz was

incredible. Pain might be rewarding in the end. She kissed Joyce

softly on the lips and buried her head next to her face on the

deep pillow. Another siren howled in the distance. Yes, maybe pain could be rewarding after all.

The second book focuses more on the mind of one man, a policeman in charge of an investigation into a serial killer. This is a world of black and white. Poetry is death here, the weapon of choice by the serial killer who kills women jack-the-ripper style.  We live in the minds of each man, the good and the bad. Right and wrong in this world are clear; there is no doubt. However, death itself is a strange and ambiguous thing, elusive; a thing to be craved. As our protagonist knows at work to peruse evil and can feel good doing it, at home, caught between his lover and his wife, a lustre less life and the pure subterranean thrill of his memoires, the same man is slab of cold grey meal, moulded by experience, blow about by the prevailing winds. In that place death is a thing both longed for and feared most of all, and the taking of a life is a thing of beauty. It is in this novel that poetry asks us if we can validate reality over perception, rationality over visions, and the beauty of a life lived to its full once held encased in ritual and shrines.

A flower and a deck of Tarot cards.

This was all he had left.

He thought about the syringe in the pocket of his coat.

The Tower, ruin and death.

The Lover, choice and ordeal.

And an assassin.

Never forget the assassin.

The Devil.

The third card.

A crossroad.

A crossroad . . .

His eyes slowly closed, and he began to snore mildly, his

mouth pulled in a tense grin.

No, not a vegetable.

A flower.

A unique flower, in a special greenhouse. He had to protect

her, take good care of her, because she was invaluable, like some

strange South American orchid. Priceless, delicate, beautiful,

even in her artificial environment. A flower of memory and life

stopped. Frozen in time. Frozen in her Egyptian smile. Forever.

He nodded, letting the blind eye of the TV set reflect their

silhouettes getting up and leaving the room, until they were so

tiny they looked like dust specks, disappearing into the greyness

of the elliptic screen.

The third novel and in my opinion the starkest of them all, is firmly placed in Babylon, so that we get a feel for the darkness of the city itself. This is a place where poetry is controlled and owned by the government and smuggled out of the country by rebels to ensure its survival. In this world doped up strippers can blow up an entire room by a flash of their pubic hair and poets are the hapless victims of their essential drug addictions. Homophobia can kill you; murder is legal provided you have the right paperwork and enough money. Strangely, for me, this was the world that most resonated with the one we live in, and this I am sure is no accident. Poetry again is prevalent, and again the writer is the victim of his own talent. Some characters from the first novel are revisited here, but mostly it is a deeper look at the city. Where novel one was about what people did with their lives and their choices, and novel two was bout dealing with tragedy and loss, number three is about the small meaningless habits that will ruin your life. We had choice in novel number one, and therefore hope. In novel number three we are forced to recognise it is not our choices that will lead us astray, but our habits. The minute forces of nature that we think make the smallest amount of difference that in the end will be the death of us all.

Literary history was literally overcrowded with dead poets, she

remembered from her high school days—but she had never

imagined living with one, some day . . . She had been so bad in

literature . . .

Figure that: Sal’s muse was a complete literature imbecile.

She had to admit it was sort of funny, come to think of it . . .

She drank another sip to cover her painful smile.

The stripper was dancing in the middle of paper flames.

Red fire.

Cassandra thought about this for a second.

Flames.

Yes, she would burn Sal’s works tonight.

Make a nice fire of all his words, in the sink.

A funeral pyre.

Words of ashes.

A smoky triumph.

The stripper began to shake her shoulders to make her breasts

rotate.

The audience clapped and whistled.

The band ploughed on.

Burn, baby, burn.

You can probably guess that I really loved The Babylonian Trilogy. It’s not that the novel is without its faults – the flitting from story to story can create loose threads that interfere with plot recognition. The stand out for me in this novel is the brilliant character study that Seb Doubinsky has applied to the more than fifteen main characters in the novel. Never once was I bored or felt lost in the arms of one of Seb’s many protagonists. Normally this many main characters would be death for a novel, but here their stories were interwoven,  with such richness and depth that I had the intense privilege of immersion with each and every character. It is impossible to imagine that a reader could connect this deeply with so many different voices, and yet this was successfully achieved by this talented author.  Another aspect of characterisation that I loved was the connection with poetry as the narrator. I felt as though I was given permission to float away in order to examine from another place. The poetry always pulled me back, the mad man in control of the asylum, but I was never sorry to return. I felt as though I could view the many protagonists from inside their skin as well as through the eyes of a benevolent god, standing back to drink my fill of the broader scene.  In the end the winner in this novel is poetry itself, with its dark uncompromising ways, its devils laugh and its vicious core. I found myself swept away by the rhythm and the always questioning tone, forever expanding in its quest for what it means to be human.

Below the wing of the plane lay Babylon, flat and grey like a

piece of antique sidewalk. Stefan looked at it for a moment, until

he felt a presence by his side. A beautiful blonde stewardess

asked him with a charming smile if he cared for anything to

drink.

He ordered a double scotch on the rocks and looked down

again, but Babylon had vanished in the meantime, eaten forever

by the thick white clouds which rolled under the plane like the

big chunks of ice sometimes carried by the River Styx in spring.

Find out more about Sebastien Doubinksy here.

Purchase a copy of The Babylonian Trilogy here.

Seb has a new book coming out in August called Absinth and he has another one coming out early 2012 called The Song of Synth. Both will be published through PS Publishing. Go to their website here.

Henry Miller and a nameless, available female.

Ok, so I can feminist it up with the best of them. I’ve been down most of the paths: Intellectual antidisestablishmentarianism media whore with Germaine Greer; ultra pissed-off-ed-ness with Susan Brown-Miller and Alanis Morissette (ok, I may never have been THAT shitty); chemistry studies with Mary Daly to try to develop synthetic sperm; Übermensch intelligent existential “help-me-I-don’t-really-exist” angst with Simone de Beauvoir. I even shucked the heels and lippy to opt in for dungarees and distemper a-la Andrea Dworkin.

I am a woman who owes a lot to feminism. It has a very special place in my heart. And I can honestly say, I gave activism my very best shot.

My attempts at full-blown lesbianism, though enthusiastic were ultimately fruitless. Besides some half-hearted obligatory orgies, (I am cool, really I am) an on-line relationship with a woman, that was never consummated (!), several nights of (admitted) bliss going back to an anonymous ‘her’ place from lesbian bars, one six-week long relationship with a woman (my best effort) and a night consummating a life time of pent-up passion for my Aunt (this saw me conquer homosexuality, infidelity and incest in one dreadful fuck that should have been the hottest moment of my life, but was ruined by an intense mary-jane induced anxiety attack and the worst case of cotton mouth in my life) I was horrified to discover that all my lesbian masturbatory fantasies included the male gaze. In short – lesbianism didn’t quite do it for me unless a male I was deeply attracted to was there to watch or participate.

Can I just say. This aint good for a feminist.

In the end the hetro girl won out, and I picked up the mascara and dropped the hard-core attitude in order to get laid. Unfortunately lesbianism was only ever a political choice for me. I may not even be bi, though I’m not quite ready to admit that yet.

For me, the above was a huge problem, but I did have all the answers. And some of them I even believe. We (as a whole) are conditioned to see women as sexual objects! I am a fully functioning member of society, therefore I see women as sexual objects too; and hope to objectify them with my partner. I can appropriate my partners penis by sharing a woman with him – it’s a bonding experience, kind of like footballers like to engage in, except with them it is a homoerotic thing (without exception – sorry fellas – but really, is there anything as gay as football anyway???). These answers are all accurate. This is as true as, you act like your parents when you have kids, or you bring your baggage to your relationships. There is a distinct inauthenticity around my desire for women.

But this is also true for my attraction to men. The dilemma above has a corresponding corollary. How does the thinking woman deal with the possibility she may have moments of attraction for the predatory male?

I found, after much soul-searching honesty, that I was completely trapped. I loathed that which I craved sexually. It was a disturbing time in my life, the low point of which was an embarrassing, searing, white-hot empathy with characters from Sex and the City. I found myself caught between the male hating bitch that fucked them and laughed at them, or the mindless bimbo who giggled her way into flattering him, in a desperate hope she would never actually be compelled to look properly into the mirror she’d become obsessed with.

Usually the best I could hope for was some midway between the two, often directly proportionate to my male partners ability to be warm and loving toward me, or his own ego drive toward his ‘bad faith’ self-actualisation. After all, the term woman is virtually synonymous with inauthenticity. Being with a man reminds you that you don’t really exist outside of his gaze. When you’re a lesbian you can hide from that (to an extent), but hetro women can’t. We have to deal with the very penis that obliterates us on a daily basis.

Thank you very much Mr Freud.

This problem manifests itself in the weirdest ways inside me. Initially there is an aspect of the male arrogance I am attracted to. I want it. I want it for myself. I want to have male privilege, and if I can’t have it, I want to fuck it. Own it that way. Use sexual connection to appropriate it.

It took something to get out of this, and now I find myself drawn to the deep complex artistic male. He has to be examining himself. But also, I still love a tiny bit of that arrogance on occasion. That sense of entitlement that men kid themselves about, that we women wish were possible, even-if-we-can-never-have-it-and-the-men-never-actually-have-it. There is still – I am ashamed to admit – a piece of me that wants to think my ‘essence of woman’ can tame and control that arrogant male creature and ruin him for every woman in the hereafter, until I get sick of him – which will inevitably occur about five minutes after said ruin.

And this plays itself out in my attraction to male writers and musicians.

My fellow writer and blogger Paul noticed this recently and asked me about it. What it boiled down to for him, was the difference between misogynists. Or rather, he wanted to know how someone such as myself, who can’t take Hemingway’s ‘blokiness’ can be so ‘in love’ with someone like Henry Miller? Or even stronger than that, how can I have such intense passion for the Marquis de Sade?

I took this a little further to examine why I fall in love with any misogynist artist at all. It goes on for a female cultural consumer all the time. I like Roman Polanski films and yet despite the fact that he wrote one of my favourite short stories I can’t take Martin Amis. Why? Why is Roman’s actual horror less objectionable to me than Martin’s ego drive? Why can I worship Nick Cave’s murdering of Kylie Minogue and yet I can’t tolerate Mick Jaggers’ perpetual sexual conquests? (That one may be self-explanatory on both counts.)

Appropriately, I was ashamed of my obsession (and let’s be frank – it is an obsession) with the Marquis de Sade when I studied Andrea Dworkin. Like the dutiful daughter, I methodically packed him away and hid him in my garage when I read her chapters, so disdainful of his obsessive hatred of women, and the way he documents their torture so faithfully. Even at this point however, I couldn’t bring myself to hate him. I couldn’t even say to my lover at the time, “She is right; he is bad.” My confessional yielded quite the opposite response. I lamented the sacrifice. I decided I had to ‘choose’ which battle I aligned myself with. I loved Andrea Dworkin (and still do) and I think she was terribly important (certainly in my life she was) but this love was not commensurate with the Marquis de Sade. The good Marquis didn’t give a shit who I loved (emphasis on shit) but Andrea demanded a sacrifice. She wanted a certain thing to be obliterated – destroyed and removed from the face of the earth. And a large emblem of this was written in the chronicles of the Marquis de Sade.

I was faithful to Andrea for about a year, then I dug the books out of my garage and gave them pride of place on my writing shelf again.

It wasn’t honest. I couldn’t turn my back on the man who had meant so much to me. I couldn’t reconcile the piece of me that his Justine and his Juliette spoke to. I had no explanation, suffice to say, to hate him completely was to hate and reject a piece of myself. They now sit on my shelf together, a reminder of my own irreconcilable differences. Sometimes, in the liquid heat of a summer night I hear them squabbling, trying to resolve this problem for me, but it usually ends up with the Marquis propositioning her and Andrea removing his penis with a knife. Which, of course, he loves.

Kandinsky talked about choosing the object of form based on a corresponding vibration in the human soul. This is one of my favourite ideas, and one that I go back to repeatedly. I think sometimes, of my fingers like a divining rod, fluttering across a store or library bookshelf, waiting for that vibration. Then there is a recognition in me, a piece of me that says “this book, and this book right now,” and then I “have to have it.” Usually in those moments, the book will represent a great deal. I don’t mean to appear esoteric, nor do I want to supply weak answers that have no foundation in fact. I merely want to point out that sometimes the body recognises something that the conscious mind is refusing to see. (We all have this experience of our body ‘betraying’ us)

This had to be enough for me. I couldn’t adequately explain to Andrea Dworkin (who very thankfully was not in front of me demanding an explanation) why I needed the Marquis, I merely had to trust the piece of me that knew that I did. Just as I trust the piece of me that needs Andrea.

Fortunately, there’s OmmWriter, a bare-bones text editor with some new-age flourishes to help provide a distraction-free environment for writers to do their stuff.

The software can be configured to play ambient music in the background (from Asian soundscapes to a music track that sounds like a mashup of Moby and Vangelis), and neat little clicky sounds when they keys are pressed. This isn’t a vital part of the program’s functionality, but help some people (me included) concentrate on their work.

OmmWriter Dana I is the free demo version. The website says that the main difference between this and the full version paid (Dana II) is that the latter contains more background images and ambient sounds. The creators ask for a suggested minimum donation of US$4.11 for the full version.

Your words can be saved to three different file formats; .txt, .pdf and .rtf

Unfortunately for some, OmmWriter will only run on the Mac OS X platform. I do hope that a Windows version is released soon so my fellow MS-based scribes can enjoy this magical piece of software.

–
[disclaimer: I have no connection with the creators of OmmWriter, and have received no payment or gratuities for this review.]

They’re so cheeky he said of they with no personality only instinct.

But I looked in the eye, at the outstretched arm, at claws ready for gripping and mischief as it reached for some sugar cookie treat. No stupidity lurked in that eye; its expression functioned in open space.

Squirrel turned, treat aloft to the safety of the bushes where, burdened by some connection, some desire for more or some guilt it turned to stare thanks into my soul. Then it scampered away;  scampering so well it even put its life at risk, which is a luxury.

In trees it flew by instinct.

On the ground it scampered cheeky, just to connect with me.

All my life at least, Australian’s have been resisting American’s. There is an unease in our relating, that is very one-sided. Australian’s have those jokes. You know the ones: Why do American’s talk so loud? So they can be heard over their clothes – that sort of thing. Australian’s have made a pathetic attempt at a haughty disdain and American’s have watched in a bemused fashion and ruffled our hair.

Some of my dear American friends over the years have asked me why Australian’s feel this way. I have always explained it in terms of cultural domination – of us being irritated with American products and ideas dominating every market place when they are not necessarily the best; this sort of thing.

But I have reason to change that idea now.

I used to go to New York City all the time. My mother lived there and that gave me ‘excuses’ to travel there regularly. My experience of American’s was always the same. Why, when they were so important to the rest of the world, did they give so little thought about the rest of the world? Why did they vote in THAT president (over and over again)? Why can’t they make a decent coffee, and why does everything they eat have to be six times the size of our largest meal? It’s now been, I think, at least six years since my last visit.

This time was very different in two ways.

The first difference I noticed, was how much of American culture has been assimilated by Australian’s recently. More than I’ve experienced before. It’s in the little things. Starbucks, Donut King, Victoria’s Secret, Gap, Barnes and Noble – these stores are now all over our shores, and they were once very special reasons to go to the States. You’re hard pressed to find a major chain store in the States that is not in Australia. But more than that, we can shop at all these places on-line now. The shopping, always an exciting aspect of any visit to New York, was simply, no different to home.

It’s not just the stores, however. Television looked the same. I commuted each day from the burbs on the Staten Island Ferry or the morning express bus, and the conversations people had around me could easily have been had in Sydney Australia. Conversations about other countries, about news, food stamps and poverty.

But the big change, was in the American’s themselves. There is a nervousness to them now. A vulnerability. They still have that warmth (they will leap over a subway barrier to help if you are looking cock-eyed at a map) but now they worried. My son, on his first trip to the States, and only sixteen years old, said “People are so nervous here. It’s like everyone’s scared.”

I knew it myself. I felt instantly warm toward the people, when I had mostly felt irritation. And it wasn’t just me either. Peter Carey who had always said he would never write an American novel despite so many New Yorkers’ begging him to do so, wrote the quintessential American novel last year (Parrot and Oliver in America), Don Watson called Americans ‘those odd cousins that fascinate us, but we always worry about getting too close to.’ Yet he also wrote his American book last year (American journey’s). And then there is all that cultural assimilation that we have been so happy to accept. I am going to go out on a limb here and say that in this country we have embraced America more culturally in the last ten years or so than we ever have before. I saw it when I was there.

Why?

Is it a post 9/11 thing? Is it a GFC thing? Is it about the power shift toward Asia?

Probably.

Those events devastated America, and no doubt contribute deeply to their obvious insecurity. More than one American on my trip made mention of how well Australia did in the GFC. American’s have always looked on Australian’s as exotic funsters, loving our larrikin image. But, besides the guy who followed us in Staples trying to copy our accents, this time the engaging was deeper. More respectful. There were even questions about moving to Australia, and how difficult it must be to get into such a great country. American’s on this trip didn’t baffle me. I felt for them. And I wanted to warmly reach out.

Is this a permanent shift? I think it is. And I think it is partly why we have accepted so much of their way of life onto our shores recently. I think we no longer fear them. They can’t take us over any more. Rome has started to fall, and we are feeling the first effects of that now.

Buy your copy now from LegumeMan books

Bernard may or may not exist. He’s the victim of a series of cruel experiments conducted on him by his father and a scientist who are trying to cure an ‘illness’ (in an age when all that exists is illness) that inflicts those called ‘Suburbanites’ that has rendered them all revolting, flesh-eating monsters.  (It’s hard to miss the inference isn’t it? A nice tie in with this theme is one of giant shopping malls depicted as the ultimate in terror and violence.)

Garrett Cook may or may not exist.  He is god in a world where narrative and plot are the building blocks of cultish religion, and characters have to influence a writer’s block ravaged author who subconsciously knows he does not deserve the power he has over his novel.

Clyde definitely does exist. He is desperate to establish himself as worthy of more than  a by-line, as essential to the plot as his over empathic vacant brother who he enviously recognises as the novel’s protagonist.  Where Bernard is a Jesus like character sent to save us all by making his way deliberately to Archelon Ranch no matter how many valley’s of death he has to traverse, Clyde is his shadow. A well-meaning Satan determined to place himself as the center of narrative, even if it means killing his father and exploiting the church to get there.

This is a classic post modern tale with a futuristic twist. We are told several times what the novel is not – the author dreads a ‘Nineteen Eight-four’ or ‘Brave new world’ response to the novel – but not at all what the novel is. It’s perpetual reference to the author (a very post mod technique) even to the point where the author is placed in the position of god (interestingly a god the characters think  they can influence, even if they can’t) never seeps into self-indulgence, instead keeping us fascinated with this Garrett Cook, a writer clearly at odds with himself.

This is an ambitious feat for any writer, particularly one in his early days, but I have to say it is very well executed here. The overriding feeling is one of an author dispossessed, almost as if he is watching his characters fascinated as they reveal his own work to him.

Bernard is steeped in a transcendent-style fate known as ‘Deep Objectivity’ – a talent all good writers must possess. However, this objectivity is so pervasive it has placed Bernard in a position where he feels empathy with objects as well as humans experiencing the human condition. He will lament the miseries of simply being a hat, while feeling the heavy-handed lash of a man paying to have a prostitute whip him. Each of these experiences get chosen for Bernard by the ‘Deep Objectivity’ itself, which may or may not be Garrett Cook.

Cook knows that the misery experienced by his characters goes both ways, and sometimes his characters know enough to blame him and sometimes they don’t. Some want to take control (if not responsibility) for their own future, while others are merely the peaceful victim of the experiences it throws their way.

Each character has their own journey, which moves the plot forward in an interesting suspenseful way. Far more exciting however, are the intense philosophical questions raised and the cool examination of the human condition.

Running through the novel is the existential question of what it means to be human. Terror and traumatic death are common occurences, animals have become drug addicts, objects have taken on life. In this strange world, we are not exactly sure why all these mutations exist (toxic poisoning appears to be the explanation) but we do know that there is a little bit of humanity exhibited by every creature (even the dinosaurs that play both predator and police) while Bernard seems to be the only human capable of any sort of transcendence. ‘Deep Objectivity’ is a thing that needs to be felt, but resisted also. Too much empathy will cause death of what it is to be human. None renders the animal devoid of any ‘humanity’. (All of this is of course, the writers fate)

I really enjoyed this book. It ‘wowed’ me. I haven’t read any of the authors other work, but I will now. This work was recommended to me by someone I greatly admire, and if I have any influence over the readers of this blog, I strongly encourage you to give this novel a go. It is a short read (just 111 pages) though it is not a novel that will make everything easy for you, but your work will be well rewarded. It is worth getting into and ultimately, Garrett Cook is a writer worth watching.

You can buy your copy of Archelon Ranch through the excellent LegumeMan Press website here.

“The scene I walk away from resembles a cardboard cut-out of reality; faces frozen in rehearsed emotion. Everywhere around me there is overwhelming heat and suffocation. I make my way to the bathroom. The mirror reveals several coagulated wounds mapped across my face. Beyond those, I search for that spark which makes me who I am. There is no spark to be found. I am officially empty.”

Who are you today? 

Who are you tomorrow?

How do you interact with your day?

Does it exist  beyond the mind numbing to do list?

What if your world were different, would it change you?

In A Million Versions of Right, first time author Matthew Revert challenges the reader to a series of worlds completely different and exactly the same as our own.

A young man with small construction workers in his ejaculate is nervous about his blossoming sexuality and approaches his father for advice in a Freudian tale of youthful apprehension. A scientist wants to cure women of menstruating and accidentally passes the ‘disease’ on to men, who accept their fate along with the side-effect of loss of personal power. A man laments the dull pointless hours spent at his job (screaming at walls to see how much of the scream they absorb) and finds to his horror he is very good at it. Some school children experiment with ideas a teacher has passed on to them, proving that too much knowledge is danger, while the other students simply think the lesson on the ugliness of the scrotum is another dull day at school.

Absurdist humour involves placing ‘ordinary’ human beings into extraordinary situations to see how they ‘react’. This form of literature, steeped in nihilistic and existential philosophy and Dada and surrealism in art, has found a place in our modern bookshelves next to post modernism, and post post modernism. Great absurdist writers include Samuel Beckett, Franz Kafka, Harold Pinter and more recently Paul Auster and Patrick Susskind. In Reverts’ book there is an introductory quote to Joyce, and you feel his influence as you travel through the work.

The first thing to say about Absurdist fiction is it is not an easy read, and this book by Matthew Revert is no exception. It’s intentionally confronting and the nature of Reverts’ prose acts as a giggly assault – particularly in the order chosen to give us the stories. The first two stories are our training ground and the reader has to show some trust in the author, that they know where they are going and that we are on a journey that is worth taking.

However, the author captured me entirely at story number three and I felt deeply rewarded from then on. All absurdist fiction is difficult, and like some of it, this series is well worth the trust. The author knows what he is doing, and has an excellent grasp of an extremely difficult genre to write in.

It is worth mentioning that these are stories that take a male-centric view of the ridiculous. Be prepared for scatological humour, a great deal of swearing and certain social niceties to be obliterated. The second stories obsession with testicles is weighty and can get tedious, in the way De Sade can seem repetitive. But then, isn’t a man’s obsession with his ‘junk’ precisely that? What saves this narrative from falling into ‘blokiness’ is the way Revert pokes fun at obsession. Testicles, penises, ejaculate, shit and other masculine obsession simply exist while the stories interaction with these ‘themes’ pokes delightful fun at any  fixation  over the subject matter. Repetition is a tool often used in this form of literature and The Bricolage Scrotum uses this device to such great effect we are forced into a moment, internally screaming “ENOUGH! Why are we so obsessed with male genitalia?”

Other usually complicated subjects are treated with playful ease by Revert. In Meeting Max homophobia is something that humanity understands without condoning. A willing female surrogate is offered so the protagonist never has to face the physical manifestation of his deep attraction for her father. This warm and generous alternative to the stereotyped ‘male bonding sessions’ over strippers or other hapless women poses a mighty challenge to homophobia in its gentle unassuming acceptance, while honouring deep bonds that can form between men.

Do not imagine, however, that this series of short stories tripping through a stream of politesse. A Million Versions of Right is anything but politically correct.

Women are dealt with in A million versions of right in an interesting manner. This is an author comfortable with all aspects of his psyche and one can sense the presence of a female voice inside the writer. There is a brave attempt to describe the miseries associated with menstruation and a very delicious moment for female readers when men start experiencing the symptoms and (interestingly) associated social consequences of the monthly cycle.

My favourite story (The great headphone wank) involves a couple addicted to the sexual noises emanating from a set of headphones purchased by her for him to help him sleep while listing to music, providing her with her much-needed silence.  This is a brilliant study in nihilism and even addiction of sorts and the lovers have to come to grips with events that have taken them over, somehow never letting go of their dominating ennui in the process. I can honestly say I loved this story. It reminded me of Martin Amis’ Let me count the Times, one of my all time favourite short stories. High praise in my world.

The devoted reader (who by this stage simply can’t put the book down) is rewarded with the story at the end. This is a whimsical study of the art of reading in itself, and without giving any of it away, I will simply state the final line packs a punch a mile wide. Read it and grin.

There is a great deal more to say about this wonderful collection of short stories, but then that is the privilege of absurdist writing – interpretations and immersion. In my opinion Matthew Revert is a fine writer, with an excellent debut here and the promise of a big future. I am fortunate enough to have my copy signed. All I can say is get a signed copy soon – while you still can.

Lisa

A Million Versions of Right by Matthew Revert is published by LegumeMan Books and can be purchased here.

Jack lives in Room. He has lived in Room all his life, and he is about to turn five. He lives with his mother, a spider, a mouse, a plant and a series of inanimate objects, proper nouns with genders, that he clings to as if they were his friends: meltedy spoon, skylight, lamp and bed for example. For Jack, there has never been any other world than this world, and he is unaware of the horror of his situation that becomes obvious to the reader.  Jack misinterprets his mothers’ responses to their world that an adult reader immediately understands.

Jack sleeps most nights in wardrobe because Old Nick comes in to ‘squeak the bed’ and Ma doesn’t like Old Nick to set eyes on Jack.

When I describe this book to people, their eyes fill with horror and the usual reaction is ‘I don’t want to read something like that’. However the horror is placed on the back burner by the innocence of Jacks narration and the complex world he and his mother create together in order to, not just survive, but keep themselves sane and intellectually energetic. Ma is strict about television times and turning it off during commercials because they ‘rot the brain’. Together they ensure they get exercise despite of the size of the room they live in. Regardless of the limits of the potential of their day, the depth of narrative makes this book impossible to put down. That is the strength of the novel.

This is a book written entirely from the child’s perspective, but in a strongly unique way. Donoghue did a great deal of research into the lives of children in captivity and it shows. She has strong control of the voice never losing her grip for a second. Many readers have described the experience of feeling the presence of this novel long after they’d completed the book, and that was my reading experience also.

 There are times (a few too many for me) that the novel tips into the sentimental and it does over glorify the relationship between a mother a child. I found Ma to be just a little too strong.

I had the feeling that Emma Donoghue addresses certain imagined criticisms of the book in the book itself which I thought was curious. The reason I suggest these are imagined, is that the book deals with them just as they are raised in the reader’s mind. I get the feeling Donoghue intuited these problems (just as a reader does) and brushed them off – almost by poking fun at the reader.

One criticism is the world that Jack creates is so sweet and so innocent, the horror of their existence can be momentarily forgotten – so much so that at certain points the reader finds themselves considering the possibility that Jack is better off in Room. Donoghue has the main characters deal with this idea themselves, in a rather clumsy way, forcing the reader to take a kind of embarrassed look at their own imaginings. (I don’t want to go into detail about what incident deals with this, as it involves a spoiler)

Another imagined criticism semi dealt with is the existential / surreal question of what it is to be human when the world you can interact with is so small and unchanging. The entire philosophical aspect of this novel is dealt with in a very short scene, where the notion is ridiculed as if certain questions are simply not permitted to be asked.

For me, this reduces the stature of the novel. Rather than deal with what is happening to the reader as they engage so deeply with Ma and Jack, Donoghue almost makes fun the questions raised in the readers mind, forcing us to criticise the characters used to represent this questioning and to show only pity and empathy for Ma and Jack. This was a great shame. I really wanted the novel to go a little deeper and deal with these complex issues.  If they came up for Donoghue as she wrote they should be dealt with, not brushed off.

Having said that, I want to highly recommend the novel – It is definitely a fantastic read, and once started, you are compelled to finish. It’s always great to read something that you can’t put down.

Lisa

Link to a floor plan of Room here.

Link to the New York Times review here.

Link to various reviews and interviews here.

I completed another full day in my job (that I feel the need to be grateful for despite the fact that I don’t want to do it) last week. It’s a job I have been doing for almost fifteen years and I have the great pleasure of being good at it. However, being good at something you don’t want to do and don’t want to be known to be doing is really only useful to ease the ever-present guilt making money inspires. I sleep well at night knowing I earn every cent and the work I produce deserves a little more and modesty like that has its advantages.

But this particular day, as I was packing up, I gave the send/receive on my hotmail one last virtual squeeze and received an announcement of a short list for a competition I had entered.

I wasn’t on it.

Because I am a serious writer (by that I mean someone who writes minimum daily hours and seeks to improve) I am forced into the humiliating queue of hopefuls in competitions, slush piles and long lines at writers festivals. Naturally, I see myself as superior to my companions at this point in my career. At this stage all one has is ego. Shedding one’s ego is only for those who can replace it with something else; a competition win, an offer from an agent, or the ever elusive publishing deal. Till then I am a slush pile hopeful, clinging to legendary stories of discovery like those of David Forster Wallace and JK Rawling.

What’s most distressing is what it has taken to get this far. That is, to get nowhere. My answer to the ever present “How is the writing going?” is as jaded and vacant as my friends and families eyes when I tell them I can’t go out with them again because I will be home writing that stuff that never gets published. It has taken years to cement the discipline and inner belief required just to make it to the keyboard every day consistently and stop turning on the television and going out for dinner.  I see these abilities as valuable and consistent with my true self. Either that or  I just can’t face many more dinners with a side serving of questions about the novel I am working on; watching those who love me,  desperate to make happy faces of encouragement for something they don’t understand, and obviously have mixed feelings about.

I don’t like to admit it of course but I have never been on a short list – at least not that I know of. I look at those who do make a short list and or a win, sometimes with an envious determination to learn from them, and sometimes with a painful disinterestedness as if getting closer to their work will give me no clue as to what lack exists in my own. I’m told it’s a lottery and there are times I long for that to be true. Mostly I take too much to heart a belief that they didn’t win so much as I lost, and I need to dig deep to find my way to the next entry. I know these years of congratulating others, of feeling the losses deeply, of chocolate or red wine condolences and emails baring bad news  are good for my character and will build me into the writer I will become, but as I get closer to my goal (as I inevitably am – right?) I can’t help realising any meagre win is unlikely to make up for these years on Struggle Street as my self esteem is beaten to a pulp night after night by the sheer depth and breadth of my ambition.

I discover things about myself that I don’t like (such as the insistent power of my ego) as I impatiently wait out my endless education. The advantage to never trying is never failing, and I do see from my ivory tower the bliss associated with the damp regret the dedicated television watcher experiences as they lament never putting their plans into action. At least they think they could have made it. I sit amongst endless piles of paper evidence convincing me I am not yet good enough and may never be. Is it any surprise that the worst in me rises, scratching away at the final thin scraps of veil preventing me from confronting my true self?  This same self I try to write copy from?

Hilary Mantel told us about the desperate hours before the announcement of The Booker Prize, knowing you are about to lose in the most spectacular way, or you are about to beat J.M. Coetzee. I can barely cope with the hours, days and years before publication and she claims these were her best, when she was free to write what she wanted to write and never had a deadline.

And in my heart of hearts (and on the surface of my sweat soaked skin) I ache for the day I can look back on this time and wish I was here again. I yearn for the knowledge, so elusively at the tip of my fingers that makes me miss the nights I could sit up and write as the mood took me, for my simple blog that will be read by few, my small press e books that will sell ten copies a month and my slush pile stories; wild, inappropriate, rejected and adored for the pleasure of refusing to give in and write what I must in order to get published.