Category Archives: all this literary
early birds
To stress, or not to stress, that is the exercise
Poetics : Google-Generated Poems
This would have to be one of the great time wasters/time user for the trapped in the office set…but minutes and minutes of fun. No doubt addictive too!
Google Poetics is born when Google autocomplete suggestions are viewed as poems.
Google’s algorithm offers searches after just a few keystrokes when typing in the search box, in an attempt to predict what the user wants to type. The combination of these suggestions can be funny, absurd, dadaistic – and sometimes even deeply moving. There is, however, more to these poems than just the occasional chuckle. The Google autocomplete suggestions are based on previous searches by actual people all around the world. In the cold blue glow of their computer screens, they ask “why am I alone” and “why do fat girls have high standards”. They wonder how to roll a joint and whether it is too early to say “I love you”. They seek information on ninjas, cannibals, and Rihanna, and sometimes they just ask “am I better off dead?” Despite the seemingly open nature of Western society, forbidden questions and thoughts still remain. When faced with these issues, people do not reach out to one another, instead they turn to Google in the privacy of their own homes. The all-knowing search engine accepts and embraces these questions and tangles them with popular song lyrics, book titles and names of celebrities: often with hilarious results. Obviously Google is not Shakespeare, Whitman or Dickinson – it can not illuminate the unknown. But it does reveal our inner workings, our fears and prejudices, secrets and shames, the hope and longing of a modern individual.
Rough guide to Australia
Rough guide to Australia
The following is by Douglas Adams [needs verification] of “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” fame … there is more than a grain of truth here .
Australia is a very confusing place, taking up a large amount of the bottom half of the planet. It is recognizable from orbit because of many unusual features, including what at first looks like an enormous bite taken out of its southern edge; a wall of sheer cliffs which plunge into the girting sea.
Geologists assure us that this is simply an accident of geomorphology, but they still call it the “Great Australian Bight” proving that not only are they covering up a more frightening theory but they can’t spell either!
The first of the confusing things about Australia is the status of the place. Where other landmasses and sovereign lands are classified as continent, island or country, Australia is considered all three. Typically, it is unique in this.
The second confusing thing about Australia is the animals. They can be divided into three categories: Poisonous, Odd, and Sheep. It is true that of the 10 most poisonous arachnids on the planet, Australia has 9 of them.
Actually, it would be more accurate to say that of the 9 most poisonous arachnids, Australia has all of them. However there are few snakes [sic??!!], possibly because the spiders have killed them all.
But even the spiders won’t go near the sea. Any visitors should be careful to check inside boots (before putting them on), under toilet seats (before sitting down) and generally everywhere else. A stick is very useful for this task.
The last confusing thing about Australia is the inhabitants.
A short history: Sometime around 40,000 years ago, some people arrived in boats from the north. They ate all the available food, and a lot of them died. The ones who survived learned respect for the balance of nature, man’s proper place in the scheme of things and spiders. They settled in and spent a lot of the intervening time making up strange stories.
Then, around 200 years ago, Europeans arrived in boats from the north. More accurately, European convicts were sent, with a few deranged people in charge. They tried to plant their crops in autumn (failing to take account of the reversal of the seasons), ate all their food, and a lot of them died.
About then the sheep arrived, and have been treasured ever since. It is interesting to note here that the Europeans always consider themselves vastly superior to any other race they encounter, since they can lie, cheat, steal, and litigate (marks of a civilized culture they say) – whereas all the Aboriginals can do is happily survive being left in the middle of a vast red-hot desert, equipped with a stick.
Eventually, the new lot of people stopped being Europeans on Extended Holiday and became Australians. The changes are subtle, but deep, caused by the mind-stretching expanses of nothingness and eerie quiet, where a person can sit perfectly still and look deep inside themselves to the core of their essence, their reasons for being, and the necessity of checking inside your boots every morning for fatal surprises.
They also picked up the most finely tuned sense of irony in the world, and the Aboriginal gift for making up stories. Be warned.
There is also the matter of the beaches. Australian beaches are simply the nicest and best in the world. Although anyone actually venturing into the sea will have to contend with sharks, stinging jellyfish, stonefish (a fish which sits on the bottom of the sea, pretends to be a rock and has venomous barbs sticking out of its back that will kill just from the pain) and surfboarders. However, watching a beach sunset is worth the risk.
As a result of all this hardship, dirt, thirst and wombats, you would expect Australians to be a dour lot. Instead, they are genial, jolly, cheerful and always willing to share a kind word with a stranger. Faced with insurmountable odds and impossible problems, they smile disarmingly and look for a stick. Major engineering feats have been performed with sheets of corrugated iron, string, and mud.
Alone of all the races on Earth, they seem to be free from the ‘Grass is greener on the other side of the fence’ syndrome, and roundly proclaim that Australia is, in fact, the other side of that fence. They call the land “Oz” or “Godzone” (a verbal contraction of “God’s Own Country”). The irritating thing about this is they may be right.
There are some traps for the unsuspecting traveler, though. Do not, under any circumstances, suggest that the beer is imperfect, unless you are comparing it to another kind of Australian beer. Do not wear a Hawaiian shirt.
Religion and politics are fairly safe topics of conversation, (Australians don’t care too much about either) but Sport is a minefield. The only correct answer to “So, howdya’ like our country, eh?” is “Best (insert your own regional swear word here) country in the world.
It is very likely that, on arriving, some cheerful Australians will ‘adopt’ you on your first night, and take you to a pub where Australian Beer is served. Despite the obvious danger, do not refuse. It is a form of initiation rite. You will wake up late the next day with an astonishing hangover, a foul taste in your mouth, and wearing strange clothes.
Your hosts will usually make sure you get home, and waive off any legal difficulties with “It’s his first time in Australia, so we took him to the pub”, to which the policeman will sagely nod and close his notebook. Be sure to tell the story of these events to every other Australian you encounter, adding new embellishments at every stage and noting how strong the beer was. Thus you will be accepted into this unique culture.
Typical Australian sayings:-
G’Day! She’ll be right mate. No Worries.
Tips to Surviving Australia:
Don’t ever put your hand down a hole for any reason WHATSOEVER.
The beer is stronger than you think, regardless of how strong you think it is.
Always carry a stick.
Air-conditioning is imperative.
Do not attempt to use Australian slang, unless you are a trained linguist and extremely good in a fist fight.
Wear thick socks.
Take good maps. Stopping to ask directions only works when there are people nearby.
If you leave the urban areas, carry several litres of water with you at all times, or you will die.
Even in the most embellished stories told by Australians, there is always a core of truth that it is unwise to ignore.
How to identify Australians:
They waddle when you walk due to the 53 expired petrol discount vouchers stuffed in their wallet or purse.
They pronounce Melbourne as “Mel-bin”.
They think it makes perfect sense to decorate highways with large fibreglass bananas, prawns and sheep.
They think “Woolloomooloo” is a perfectly reasonable name for a place, that “Wagga Wagga” can be abbreviated to “Wagga” but “Woy Woy” can’t be called “Woy”.
Their hamburgers will contain beetroot. Apparently it is a must have.
They don’t think its summer until the steering wheel is too hot to handle.
Will react in horror when companies try to market “Anzac cookies”.
They believe that all train timetables are works of fiction.
afternoon delight
[
wrote me a book
I hid the last page
I didn’t even look
I think I locked it in a cage
wrote a novel
cause everybody likes to read a novel…
it started with a word,
and it started pretty well
about a rare and fragile bird that I couldn’t even spell
on the table
I think I left it on the table…
I found the last page in the sky,
cold and sweet, like an apple
oh hello,
will you be mine?
I haven’t felt this alive in a long time
all the streets are warm today
I read the signs
I haven’t been this in love in a long time
the sun is up, the sun will stay
all for the new day
The very last breath of the hero of our tale
would leave you only to guess
did he truly prevail
in the the sequel?
I guess I’ll have to write a sequel…
my favorite part’s when I die
in your arms like a movie
it’s tragic, but now the story has it’s proper end.
oh hello,
will you be mine?
I haven’t felt this alive in a long time
all the streets are warm and grey
I read the signs
I haven’t been this in love in a long time
the sun is up the sun will stay
all for the new day
will you be mine?
the days are short and I wrote me my last rhyme
all the streets are warm today
I read the signs
I haven’t been in this love in a long time.
it’s been a long time
speak to me
Have you ever read a sentence, a paragraph or even just a word that you thought really spoke to you? Well, I found this site today where the words really do speak to you – they beg your indulgence.
A fun way to spend five minutes – or an hour!
http://savethewords.org/site.swf
an annual event on a daily basis
I have an addiction. I guess as addictions go it is not altogether a bad one; at least I am not haunting the back streets searching for my next hit (not that I couldn’t, I just don’t). I just go online and order it up anytime I fancy, and the postman delivers it to my door.
My addiction? Memoirs written by women; in particular, memoirs with a self help slant. The types where some middle aged white woman travels the world to find herself; a little Elizabeth Gilbert, but usually older (okay, my age). They decide to spend a year finding happiness, calmness, or themselves (who are there all along, standing just behind their shoulder throughout the whole journey, what a surprise!).
I don’t really understand why I am addicted to this genre, as while I enjoy them, I feel a constant tug at my thoughts. Two things in particular haunt me. One, it is always upper middle class white women of usually independent means, or rich supportive husbands who abandon hearth and home to discover that life is wherever you are. If someone has ever read of a poor indigenous/African/black/Asian single mother who managed this feat I would love to read the story! I could find myself if I could stare at a cone shell on a faraway beach too if I had oodles of money – if my guilt gene was first removed too.
These women always write that they read this book by so and so, or whosemacallit, and lo, they just happened to be nearby, or lo, they jumped on a plane and flew right to Paris and on the off chance phoned them and lo, they said come on around, and they discussed the meaning of life for three days straight before setting off on a Nepalese trek to a hermit cave, where lo (I do love my los) they could mediate for hours on end without their mind wandering even once as to how their birkin bag made it unscathed to the mountain top on the back of a llama.
I know if I tried such a trick the phone would be slammed down so fast my eardrums would hum. Darken their door – well, restraining orders come to mind first. No little llamas to lead me to nirvana, I’d be trucking my Target backpack all the way on my little own back. All the way back home once the border guards released me, that is!
The other type of memoir I fall for is the tree change. The city slicker who buys 90 acres on a whim one autumn afternoon and decides to raise goats and truffles ten miles from town. Oh, life is a hoot as those damn goats eat her Stella McCarthy one off designs that she has hung artfully over a string line (cue photos of elegantly pinned floral items) not to speak of the night she has to have a cold shower, but all turns right when the tall dark handsome country stud with his independent ways arrives on the scene to tune her engine. Cue happy ever after a life of gourmet farmers markets selling to their city slicker friends who marvel that a goat can be so cute and give milk at the same time!
These are things I do not wish for. I don’t want 90acres to care about, I don’t want goats and most of all I don’t want city visitors, but I can’t help myself. My addiction must be fed.
Right now I am spending a year with a woman whose rich invisible husband has no qualms as his wife meditates herself around the globe, and somehow makes her mother’s Alzheimer’s about her. We are finding calm together, apparently. One side of my brain is yelling “Oh for God’s sake you self-indulgent, whinging, whimp” while the other side of my brain is loving every word (particularly the rich invisible husband). I can’t help myself.
After that I will be spending a year by the sea, swimming the wild waves and collecting sea glass as a metaphor for my existence until I find my inner self (once again, where it was all the time, but now released by a fat book deal arranged by friends I meet on a sand dune one winter’s noon).
Addicted? Main lining, baby. Jealous? You bet your little La Sportiva Nepal EVO GTX® hiking shoes. I guess that some are there those but to do and write, and others are left to read and wonder how far she can get on $3.85 and a long weekend.
Wendy the witch proves her smarts
Wendy was a witch; not a great witch, or a famous witch. It would have been difficult to be either considering how many witches were named Wendy. They would have needed a system to discern first the good Wendys from the bad Wendys, as well as the mediocre Wendys , which is the group Wendy considered herself to be centred within: neither good nor bad; brilliant nor non-brilliant. She chose not to use words such as stupid or dumb, for no one was really stupid or dumb; everyone had something they could do, if only in a mediocre way, so non-brilliant was the word to use. After all Wendy was a politically correct witch, if nothing else.
It wasn’t easy to be politically correct in these modern times, with gender debates abounding. Do wizards have higher IQs then witches?, had filled most of the special supplement in the latest issue of Spellbound, the industry journal for the magical professional. Recent research had shown that once that might have been true, when witches had been kept barefoot and pregnant next to the cauldron, motherhood and domestic duties keeping them from going about in the world and pursuing academic endeavours or career paths, but now that witches had more choices in life their IQs had not only grown equal to wizards ,but in fact had surpassed them -not that Wendy hadn’t known that all along!
Just one look into any family coven and the multitasking that a witch performed in the course of her daily life showed that witches had to be superior to wizards. A wizard concentrating on a brew could be easily distracted by the sight of a scantily clad fairy in the magic mirror and the whole brew could be spoiled as he added too much of this, not enough of that. No witch would allow such a thing to happen! Great Uncle Gough had totally lost his plot one midsummer night when he was given a crystal ball that showed the entire stable of the next year’s Pinup Witches of the Month in PlayWitch and had not been able to return to his spell work until the year was up.
A rumour had circulated that the crystal ball had in fact been given to him by his wife, Great Aunt Gough, who knew not only how distracted Great Uncle Gough could be by shiny things, balls, but by any female under forty; just to give herself some peace and quiet so she could get on with completing her PhD in witchcraft, and to Wendy this proved beyond doubt that witches were indeed smarted than wizards, for a witch would never allow herself to be distracted by the mere picture of something. A witch was more realistic and concrete in her thinking. She knew how to multitask to perfection.
A witch wouldn’t just settle for looking at something, no, she would summon it up! If those Pinup witches had been wearing a pair of shoes that she liked in a bippity bippity boo, she would wave her magic stick wand, and materialise them; then it would be back to work for that modern witch. She certainly wouldn’t spend an entire year with glazed eyes lusting after something, doing nothing else. Why Great Uncle Gough had needed special meals to be prepared just to be prompted to eat, while Great Aunt Gough ran around accomplishing so much!
In fact, Great Aunt Gough had completed her PhD with honours, stored a whole year’s supply of pickled newt, completely repainted the coven, babysat for her daughter three days a week, took care of her ageing mother who refused to leave her tree house and move into a care facility, and maintained a blog for aspiring witches and wizards, while her husband gazed at that crystal ball of Pinup Witches. Who was the smarter, ay?
Wendy blinked. Who was the smartest?





