Poetic

I prefer prose to poetry. It is far more versatile and can be just as expressive. However I do get the inclination to produce short verse very occasionally. Possibly once per annum? And it will come on at short notice. I devised this during lunch at work the other day following a rather late weeknight spent with friends...

Pancake powered conversation
Lemon and honey with butter then port
Solving the problems of the whole planet
Sleeping is always our last resort

This is as much poetry as I can produce at any one sitting. Anything longer is rare. Still I hope it gives a feel for what I had experienced and is celebratory of the kind of 'good life' I feel my friends enjoy. There is something in its vibe that is reminiscent for me of the B52s song Deadbeat Club (yes I am citing silly pop music in a post on poetry).

The unusual thing with this poem is that it has nothing to do with the two topics that have provoked all my poetry over the last several years. One is my medieval fantasy setting, The Lands, which I have written short poetry for to provide the world with a bit of texture. Fantasy worlds need some things to make them seem well-rounded - maps are one and poetry is another.

The other provocation for poetry in me is intimate relations. Somehow the format of poetry helps me to process such intense experiences. However such writing is also rather personal so I feel is best left offline for now. Mind you there is one thing of mine that conveniently fits into both boxes in that it is set in the former but mimics the feel of the latter. I shall reproduce the entirely fictional The Selkie here:

The stranger came in need of shelter
I welcomed him that sunset hour
He partook of my open larder
And more we shared in bed together
At dawn I rose to find him gone
My jewels I'd lost yet still I'm warm

This is hardly anything good. As I say - I do this rarely. But I do deem it a bit of fun. Do you think this is worth entering into a 'poetry slam'?

Note: Take a look here if you want some background on the Selkie of The Lands.

Cross-posted here.

Fewer Words More Talk

This blog entry had its genesis at both a party and while sitting on public transport. A party conversation some months ago provided the subject matter and my reminiscing on that conversation while sitting on the train recently produced what I think is a novel response to the problem of that conversation.

The topic was the old chestnut that we have too few words in English for "love". An acquaintance I was chatting with declared this as a matter of regular frustration. There are many feelings and dispositions and decisions that are thrown into the cover-all term of love. This produces all sorts of confusions and - on matters personal - can result in much consternation and even conflict. I agreed that it would be nice if we had the however-many ancient Greek words for different kinds of love but I also suggested that there was another solution - defining our terms every time we need to.

It may take time and effort but conversations can be had in which all involved say "this is what my definition is in this case". If something is as important as we say human relations are then we will invest in those conversations rather than allow confusion to develop. In fact I think this would be necessary even with more words.

Imagine we had fifteen words for love. Imagine a map of these loves arrayed in space. Now imagine that something you are feeling falls annoyingly into a space in the constellation of loves between three of the named coordinates. You have to talk anyway! Will this happen or do we suppose that fifteen words will cover every kind of positive-attachment-motivating scenario that everyone will experience ever? I suspect that talk is useful however many words we may devise.

And we do try and devise new words or re-use old ones. Consider the invention by a psychologist in the 1970s of the term "limerence". Personally I think "infatuation" will do but one could argue that. Still we can and do have lots of words we can use alone or in combination - admiration... affection... attraction... (a lot of them seem to be alliterative)

This I was pondering on the train and I admit I was nodding off as it had been a long working week and the slanting sunlight of a late summer afternoon was playing with me. I think what follows is a pretty cool concept but you may think otherwise. If discussion ensues then my half-baked notion may get fully cooked.

It can be good to have just one word for love because what all the loves have in common is the thing that is most worth focusing on. That one thing is that anyone we feel love for matters to us. The quality of our interactions with them become important to us. And we will care for what happens to them. Love provokes compassion. In saying this I am revisiting my Mammalian Morality concept.

If the bottom-line of close connection is caring for what impact we have on others then communication in everyday language will facilitate that. There is a practical problem however - talk can be difficult. We are conditioned to hold back. Saying things can be scary and we cannot be sure that the response we provoke from autonomous persons will be what we hoped for.

I do think that saying stuff gets better with experience. Mind you - every time I jump into a pool I still get a momentary thrill but by the time I am over the water I cannot do anything but fall in. Opening your mouth and saying something can be a very similar experience.

Cross-posted here.

Sindacollo

I was stumped for a short story concept till I decided to tell the tale of an inanimate object in my possession and of its most recent experience...

I have many powers and serve many purposes but it takes a human to discover and awaken those in me. As such I am nothing if I am alone but once I am held and worn by a person I can be many wonderful things. Recently a new power was discovered for me and I am still abuzz with the thrill of it.

I had been taken to a picnic and lay inconspicuously by the purpose-made picnic blankets. I have been a picnic blanket many-a-time but most of those events involve adults only - this one also involved children of a very playful and imaginative age. Yes I grant you - the adults I interact with tend to be playful and imaginative too. Nonetheless it has been a while since a new power of mine was discovered and this one is a doozy!

In conjunction with a child wearing me I became a boulder! It was fantastic. We blended in well with the setting and fooled passers-by. However the children there could all still see us and soon each child wanted to take a turn using me to become a boulder. One of the adults expressed concern for my welfare but my owner dismissed such concern, knowing, as he does, that I am made of sturdy stuff and have passed many tests of endurance. I did, however, notice that he was monitoring my activity just in case my wild magic exceeded safe proportions, making intervention necessary.

I was made at a workshop along with others of my ilk a long time ago. I lose track of time, spending as much of it as I do in wardrobes, but I suspect that if I were human I would now be granted the vote. As it is, however, I am aware of the passing of time in the form of a shifting array of scents and forms. The coterie of humans that I meet has slowly changed over time.

I need humans to make me more than just a pile of cloth in a corner, and likewise I sometimes find it useful to work in conjunction with other objects to work my magic. With a few other items including a big stick (redefined as a "staff") I became one of the Istari - a wizard from Middle Earth and the character that had originally inspired my grey colouration. I have pockets which allow me to hold such things as sparklers and a small jar of glitter which helped me evoke the image of Gandalf The Grey at a masquerade ball.

At other times I have partnered with a toy light saber to help depict a Jedi. What fun light saber duels can be with all the swishing and swirling around and feeling the wind of our movements. The light saber told me that the joy for it, however, came from making hissing and crackling sounds, which I must admit is something beyond my ken.

And yet another time I worked with a card-paper model skull to become some sort of eight foot tall puppet death. At a party we scared some of the machismo from someone who was very much in need of having his mere mortality exposed to himself. You have to trust me, however, in saying that I am usually employed to enhance positive, rather than negative, experiences.

I have often been an extra blanket at sleep-overs and camps. I have been an instant tent in which between two and four friends can gather for some warmth. Some startling things have happened under me. If only humans knew just how much items of cloth notice and remember, they would be rather nonplussed.

There have been a few difficult experiences in all of this. On a walk once a part of me was ripped by thorns. Luckily I was mended. Mind you I do wish my owner would attach a proper clasp to me - this button and loop-of-string is hardly the most attractive. Yes I am a functional garment but I feel that some bling could give me a bit of a lift as I get older.

I hope for much more of this. I enjoy sleeping in wardrobes but I am only truly me once I am taken and worn and shared. Also if I can become a boulder what other powers lie in my future for others to find for me? Life is good for this grey cloak.

The word "sindacollo" is taken from the Elvish invented by J R R Tolkien and its definition is "grey cloak".

Cross-posted here.

Summer Holidays

I spent a week between Boxing Day and the start of 2012 in tents with friends at a camping and caravan park in Stony Point. This is an annual practice (at different locales) that I have participated in a number of times now and it is more becoming a part of my life. The setting in 2010-2011 even inspired some short fiction.

I started in 2006-2007 by only visiting for an afternoon and then somehow staying till the next day. Bit-by-bit I have allocated more of my holiday time to the event. Eventually it just becomes difficult to depart once I am there. Some of what follows is descriptive of what we did and some is an exploration of why such vacations may be significant to humans.

The Setting

Stony Point is a very different location from a Balnarring Beach or a Rosebud. It is a natural and legal cul-de-sac wedged between mangroves and military land and accessed by just one road and the last train station on a line. It is dominated by fishing and this diminishes the attractiveness of the beach itself. However the caravan park as a temporary home and the setting overall is very nice and relaxing and has a convenient old milkbar.

For me as an avid walker this felt a bit limiting till I discovered that there was a kind of bush track parallel with the railway line and that I could wander some distance into the mangroves. There I discovered a spot to stand around Dawn that was so very tranquil and centring for me. Tiny waves coursing with sunlight would gently lap in over my feet and I looked and listened and smelt beyond my own person. Lovely. More lovely still however was our slowly growing tent village back at camp.

The Pasttimes

Friends and friends of friends gathering and having a lazy old time in tents and camping furniture - this was the default activity of the week. Chatting. Eating. Drinking. Reading. Sketching. For a few days the group did nothing much more than this. Eventually however we started to take drives to assorted activities in groups of a few to several.

Wandering in supermarkets in Hastings seemed to be a key activity and it is a strangely fun thing to do with friends. Possibly friends make anything worthwhile. More vital however was submersion in water which I did in three distinct ways. One was the Peninsula Hot Springs which are cleverly constructed in such a way that every element - wood... stone... water... is calculated to make one feel mellow. There are pools of varying temperature and even a grotto in which we enjoy finding the resonant frequency and humming. Another site of watery joy was an ocean beach past Flinders in which I went looking at underwater habitats (eschewing the snorkling attire I had been offered for my trusty goggles). And the best of all was Somers Beach.

Somers was a location I went to many times as a child during extended family gatherings in hired holiday houses. It is a lovely beach that is neither too wild nor too tame and perfect for group play. It also pinged a memory for me with startling precision. The path from the carpark to the beach was once a winding bit of sand and now it is nicely constructed steps. Nonetheless at a particular bend in the path I suddenly remembered that that was the spot on which I had once been bitten by a bull ant. Wow. Luckily that experience never quashed my fondness for ants.

Eternal Summer

Why do modern-day lovers of convenience and security deliberately give some of that away (temporarily) on a regular basis? I was pondering this in some moments in Stony Point and have a few notions. There is always the old "getting back to nature" explanation and that is part of it. I also feel however there is a more specific aspect of nature at work. As our group got bigger the vibe changed from small intimate gathering that could sit in one big tent to a larger but still familiar "community" that would play catch with the resident toddler of the group.

The desire I think we are satisfying in such voluntary shanty towns across the Mornington Peninsula is a primal preference for community. There was a camaraderie and a sense of interdependence. The norm was to serve others as much as oneself - to help and be helped. This was well illustrated by collaborative tent constructions that felt like barn-raisings.

A group is always composed of distinct persons however and so I will end with a few personal thanks for enhancing my experience at Stony Point: To Varia for some sketching tips... Nyssa & Gavin for keeping me in sweet sweet cider... Eleanor & Daniel for offering me gourmet home-cooked fare... Helen and Kat for shopping and philosophy... Belinda and Katrina for snorkling and a Southern Fiddler Ray... Stretch & Gaby for transport and Tintin... and Evil Sarah for facilitating the fun that we all then made for ourselves.

Cross-posted here.

Queen Sized

My favourite band is Queen. These days that favour is a somewhat dormant one. I listen to a lot of different stuff and find most other things (whatever the age) fresher than Queen. This is hardly surprising given that I devoured the fifteen Queen studio albums in my young adulthood (including the posthumously produced Made In Heaven in 1995). Still my interest is regularly revived and recently a documentary on the ABC (These Are The Days Of Our Lives) has provoked a re-visiting of my collection.

I was always a dag and never had a favourite band like all the cool kids. Imagine then my excitement at discovering one round the age of 18. So exciting! I knew a number of Queen songs but had never known they were all by the same musicians – they were all so different. It is amusing to think that because now I can instantly detect the unique characteristics of Queen songs whatever genre they may be messing with in a particular song. The vocal of Freddie Mercury is (like all vocals) unique while the guitar resonance and playing of Brian May is incredibly distinctive. And they compliment one another – warm and round and ringing.

It was a blow to me back in 1991 to have discovered this band (at the time of its last album) to then have the vocalist die as a result of HIV. It was all over except I had two decades of back-catalogue to explore. And explore I did – all those layered guitar arrangements and vocal harmony. Also the wandering bass of John Deacon and the alternately skittering or smashing drums of Roger Taylor. Also the lush piano. Also the stamping and clapping. And then there were the themes of love and life and randomly getting employed to make scores for science fiction and fantasy films.

Naturally as a self-described “fan” I had to also consume band biographies. The story of some British youths who formed a band and went from on-campus gigs to stadium concerts was fun to follow. The process by which albums and songs are written was likewise interesting. The personal stuff however was the most fascinating and naturally if focuses most of Farrokh Bulsara (Freddie Mercury).

Somehow I had overlooked the ethnic Indian origin of Freddie. And apparently many others round the world overlooked his bisexuality despite his overtly camp stage persona. It is amazing how we can compartmentalize our perceptions of the world. I have even had conversations with Queen fans of the more bogan sort wanting to say nothing of the sexuality of its vocalist. And in some ways I do think it is fine to separate the art from the artist but I also think this was homophobia. Did they think they would get queer germs via the stereo?

Still in many other cases familiarity breeds respect and I think the fact this band of mixed sexuality got on with the job of producing music that inspired millions has done something to relax prejudices. It may be a pity that such inadvertent advocacy is needed. On the other hand everything that promotes a more accepting world is worthwhile.

I have moved on somewhat from my fanaticism partly because there is only so much life force one can suck from a finite back-catalogue. Queen is frequently bombastic while I have been drawn to gentler and more introspective stuff. Also Queen is polished while I have gotten into more gritty rootsy music. I suppose as life is lived one wishes music to reflect its many facets more accurately and one band can only ever do so much. Still Queen keeps the accolade of my favourite band and I have the t-shirt to prove it.

Cross-posted here.

Grooming

Some months ago I lamented the lack of a particular job offer and then added a postscript to say that I had been offered another (temp) role. Well now I feel I can report on how that is progressing. This week we have had our contracts extended beyond the original January end-date till the end of May.

The Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS) has taken on a lot of temp workers to process the information collected during the 2011 Census. The role has been more interesting than I had expected for a data-entry role. This is in part because we do more than just computer work. We also 'groom' forms for scanning and interpret forms as best we can - they even get us to draw family trees to ensure we have a full understanding of household relationships. More importantly however it is the way in which the working environment is structured that I have enjoyed.

One totally new thing for me is the practice they have of getting us to do stretches every hour and go away from our desks to get a drink and visit the loo and so forth. Nothing is too boring if in any given hour there is such a rest and I am lacking the odd twinges and aches I have had in other desk jobs. In this and other ways the ABS is an enlightened employer. They even offer a free confidential independent counselling service to workers and my curiosity and some personal concerns have driven me to make use of that.

The most important aspect of this experience is the human environment that the supervisors have fostered and the staff have run with. We are chatty and even playful at times. My workmates do things like draw faces on balloons and I never even set that trend. The group is diverse and yet there is an overall interest in the world that I have rarely encountered in a work environment. Even one of my younger workmates whom I had mentally categorized as shallow made passing reference the other day to Hunter S Thompson. I had better be more open-minded in future!

All this combines to be a job I am happy to go to every day - the most difficult part of the day is waking and a lot of that has to do with me having a full non-working life. So this extension is excellent and will allow me to have some stability and growing funds for a while. I will continue to be frugal but will also throw the spare cash at a few worthwhile but costly experiences such as live music and interstate travel. I am more into services than goods because ultimately I find it is experiences and recollections that enhance life. Mind you if I get some better clothes or the odd new (old) Transformer then that can happen too...

I feel more well-placed to go into a short Summer holiday feeling secure than I have for a while and the fact that I got this as much as a result of luck as by skill or effort is a bit sobering. Still for now I will relax and enjoy.

Cross-posted here.

The Deep Calm

This is a short story I wrote last Summer for a specific purpose and a select audience. Now however I am putting it here for a wider circulation. It is nominally set in my Lands fantasy setting. The 'curds and whey' notion was devised for the story but now may as well form part the texture of my setting too.

Capella woke feeling utterly waterlogged. She wondered why, but then all her senses went hazy and dim, and she sank into memory.

* * * * *

Matriarch Alessandra had instructed Sister Capella in meditating on the deep calm that hid below every raging tempest. Kandoth the Master of Storms was but the child of Marumi the Lady of the Sea. While the younger god rampaged there was always the overwhelming stillness and closeness of the goddess Marumi. Focusing on that deep calm was a boon to everyone who venerated the Sea. Capella was one of the best novices Alessandra had met – she seemed to sink entirely into herself and return with a calm that filled the entire shrine.

* * * * *

Capella woke once more and this time tasted saltiness and smelt brine. She felt cold water pummelling her and rolling her body over a fine gritty surface. Just as she formed the image of a beach in her mind, she faded from consciousness once more.

* * * * *

Commander Marco looked critically at the new whey-druid assigned to his ship, The Viola, and wondered if she was right for the job. It was customary to take on such a crew member to make the crew feel safe during long voyages, as they would then have clergy to intercede for them if nature got too cantankerous. Marco, however, was also keen for anyone on board to contribute to the daily work of a cargo-vessel, and was concerned that Sister Capella was a bit too delicate for the job. She seemed willing to do whatever was necessary, however, so he would make the best use of her, and gave her over to Lieutenant Nadia to be guided round the Viola.

* * * * *

Capella woke a third time, and this time seemed to stay awake. She started to flex her aching muscles from toe to neck to see if everything still worked. Her whole body hurt. She knew now she had washed ashore and wondered why. Had the ship sunk? Or had she simply been swept overboard? Her mind was a mess of wind and waves and from it came the memory of a most trivial conversation with Nadia.

“Why do they call me a whey-druid Lieutenant?”

“Oh child, it is but an old joke, a way of separating those of your ilk who follow the sea goddess and those who follow the earth god. They are curds while you are whey. Get it?”

“But we are one and the same – one family just as Nature is one.”

“That may be, Sister, but you do each prefer one over the other I’ll wager.”

Capella had to admit to herself that Marumi had always mattered to her more than Garlomen, the Lord of the Land, and suppressed a pang of guilt at this realization.

Personal examinations aside, Capella had been washed ashore, so perhaps Marumi had passed her into the care of her spouse, Garlomen. But what had happened to the ship? She attempted to sit, looked around her, squinted in the sunshine and then, once more, lost consciousness.

* * * * *

Nadia cursed audibly as she held onto the wheel of The Viola. They were half-way from Port Grazia to their destination, Nartellfar, when a huge storm had arisen over night. Sails were rent, rigging snapped, sailors rushed hither and thither. The panic among the crew was as palpable as the salty spray that seemed to fill every pore.

The Lieutenant looked over to Capella, who was standing at the bow, summoning what she called “the deep calm” and hoping to save them all from drowning. Nadia added her own silent prayer to that of the whey-druid, even if she, like Commander Marco, wondered if gods and goddesses were simply a tale told to scare children. She put more trust in Marco, who right now was below deck directing the horrendous task of removing water from the ship, bucket by swollen bucket. Then she heard the most hideous cracking and looked round just in time to see the central mast falling.

* * * * *

Capella woke and wondered if she would stay awake for long. Possibly it was best just to lie here forever and fade away. But then she remembered Marco, Nadia and the crew, all working tirelessly to preserve life and limb, all sharing the same small world of timber and rope with her, all of whom mattered incredibly to her at this moment. Were they here with her? Capella started crawling, then walking slowly, then wandering around. Sand. Surf. Rolling hills. And all about her she saw boxes and barrels and loose bit of timber. And people. Some were lying on the sand. Some, like her, were moving. One was walking towards her – Nadia. As they got closer, Capella sank to her knees.

“Forgive me, Lieutenant, for I failed to save the ship.”

“Nonsense, child, some of us are alive, and that is never something the sea promises.”

Capella stared at the dishevelled yet hale Nadia, and wondered at her resilience in the face of this disaster. Tears began to well in her eyes, as salty as the ocean. Nadia continued in her strident tones.

“We have lost the Commander, but many yet live, and we have work to do, in caring for the injured and salvaging our cargo. Come!”

Capella nodded dumbly and started to follow Nadia, who called back as they walked.

“I know this crew, Sister, and I can tell you that having you there mattered, having you work with us every day, and having you call on your powers, however great or small they be, mattered. Hope makes a sailor fight all the more to stay alive. Now, I know you can tend to the sick and injured, so come along and let this day begin”.

Nadia felt the deep calm once more, far beyond her person yet with her at this moment. She put it to the back of her mind and set to work helping the crew to which she now belonged.

At the time of writing this water was ravaging parts of Australia and so it was depicted in a destructive way. However as I edit this for blogging it is a warm evening and I wish to be enveloped by water. I look forward to drawing on some of that calmness as we once more experience the Summer months.

Cross-posted here.

Reunification

I keep forgetting to blog about my class reunion from this time last year. At the time it inspired me to do my autoblography but I never reported on my 'Class Of 90' reunion itself. What has reminded me to do so is that Noble Park Secondary College recently held its whole school Fiftieth Anniversary which I attended. So here I will relate both experiences while I can still remember them!

Class Reunion 2010

My school has never been the kind to facilitate reunions for its students. It may have never happened except for the existence of Facebook to allow assorted classmates to find one another. As soon as I received the invite I also received a flurry of 'friend' requests and then started seeing lots of profile pics. Stuff I had forgotten (or just neglected to remember) came back to me and I will admit I was somewhat scared of the prospect of attending.

Both my experiences of nerd status as an adolescent and the consumption of too many American teen movies in my life filled me with trepidation. Would I be judged by the standards of my society given how much I have diverged from white picket fence expectations? One friend told me to go because it may be better than I expected and that it was just a few hours of my life. So I did.

And it was much better than I expected. One thing I forgot was that by VCE we all got along pretty well and that last part of our lives together was the most relevant. Another was that two decades had passed and we had all had lives that (I am sure) were different from what we had imagined (if we had imagined anything at all). The night was tiring but that was because it was a whole lot of small talk. With a few exceptions most of us were now strangers. Still it was good to chat and consume finger foods and dance to 80s music.

A young friend of mine makes fun of my daggy dancing. What I discovered that night however was that I dance my age rather than daggy as such. For a moment on that dance floor I felt as if maybe I belonged among my old peers rather than among those I have chosen to fill my life with from uni and since. But this was a passing delusion - I do belong in my present life and feel more me than I ever have.

However it was worth attending the reunion and to be reminded that we all have diverse and challenging and inspiring human lives. It was a good night to party with the old gang at the Sandown Park Hotel. But now onto a much more recent event...

Fiftieth Anniversary 2011

In many ways I am more interested in history than genealogy. And so likewise at the fiftieth anniversary of Noble Park Secondary College (originally Noble Park High School) I was most fascinated by the tales of past students I had never met. We gathered in the school hall for speeches by one student from each decade.

The school started things in a very improvised way - classes were run from a handful of existing public venues in Noble Park while the school itself was constructed back in 1961. By the 70s it was thriving and schools seemed to be a much more integral part of culture back then. Major popular acts like Stevie Wright were booked to perform at school concerts for the restless teens of those days. Then we got into my era and it seemed to be characterized by pop star inspired clothes and television. Since my day the big things seem to have been coming to terms with the Internet and mobile phones. There is so much in every passing decade that nobody can ever do them justice. Still it was interesting.

And I loved the candour of some speeches. The 60s representative commented in her wry way that in her late teens she "left the school under a cloud" and as we sat there wondering what was coming she added that "I have a daughter who is almost as old as me". How we laughed. Current students (volunteers) were there to help run the event and I wonder what impression they formed of the whole event with mature adults making humorous references to teenaged sex and sole parenthood.

I sat with a few classmates and we chatted over the passage of our lives. My contribution to conversation was to ask "how have your 30s compared with your 20s?" One remarked that the 30s have been more fulfilling because of her forming a family. Another related how her 20s were a fantastic time that has seen been dampened by family commitments. It was a contrast and shows how we are all so very different and need to remember that as we make decisions and accept the consequences of them.

Following speeches and the playing of music by old school bands, we were guided round the grounds by current students, divided into our year levels, except I wandered off with some from a year younger than me due to some friendships I had made via things like Student Representative Council. We noticed both the overall sameness of the school but also key differences. Many many more computer rooms was the biggest change. And a shock came in the library in which we exclaimed "what have they done with all the books?"

There were books - a few shelves of them discreetly arrayed round the back of the library. Most space was taken with attractively arranged banks of computers and some comfy lounging areas. A time-capsule was opened and we saw our boring old uniform and a few school magazines I remember contributing to.

As all these strangers from five decades of successive adolescence milled round I got a sense of how very important our public schools are and how proper funding for quality teaching and resources helps to ensure a integrated and mature society. Schools get blamed for so many problems in society but I think that responsibility must be transferred back to the governments that neglect schools and the constituents who allow those governments to do so.

Cross-posted here.

History Project

I enjoy writing the occasional bit of short fiction and have for ages. Most of them I 'publish' by blogging. Some however have been put in the publications of genre-specific groups such as the Fellowship Of Middle Earth (FOME) or the South Eastern Science Fiction Club. And them some have been written specifically for non-literary publications. This story was written with choristers in mind (as was this other story from a while ago). As well as making fun of a persistent choral cultural meme, I also play with the shortcomings of history as an academic discipline, all within a science fiction framework.

Jasmin finished off her clone-cell roll and switched her cerebral interface back to study mode. Jasmin was one of the few students at Luna Uni to have refused the convenient bio-mod which allowed humans to photosynthesize all nutrients. She was a history student and enjoyed old-fashioned things like food. As she lay in bed Jasmin reviewed the notes she had amassed for her reconstructive history project.

Jasmin silently thanked the Universe for the Solar Flares of the Second Century Pre-Contact. The electro-magnetic pulses they had showered upon Terra had destroyed huge swathes of the purely electronic records of that narrow-minded period and historians were still working over-time to produce the best speculative gap-fillers for all the history that had been lost. Extrapolating unknown from known history was what Jasmin did best and she loved it.

Imlorho logged in and started a mental conversation with her. Jasmin was fond of her alien-exchange student and project co-writer. Interaction with a totally non-human mind was always fascinating and in the case of Imlorho it was even better as 'he' was from the totally mechanical Centauri species. Jasmin was over her youthful xeno-crush on Imlorho now but they were still firm friends. Imlorho reported to Jasmin:

"I have retrieved data on a rare four-gender species as you requested."

"Fantastic Imlorho - give it to me."

Jasmin and Imlorho were examining an obscure Pre-Contact form of Terran known in the extant records as "Choristers". They had been assigned the task of determining the nature of the four choral sub-classes and evidence was difficult to find. They had names - Soprano - Alto - Tenor - Bass - but scant other data. They were, however, pursuing an exciting new line of speculation.

Luna Uni had rejected explanations of segregation along economic or ethnic lines and the most accepted thesis was that they were religious distinctions. The Choristers had spent a lot of time occupying holy sites so a religious explanation was popular, but Jasmin felt there was something it was overlooking. Besides which, bold alternative reconstructions were the clone-cell roll of historical success. She and Imlorho were testing the proposition that Choristers had had four genders.

It was well-known across the Galaxy that human cultures supported anything from zero to three genders (for cultural and reproductive purposes). Furthermore the language utilized to describe the four choral sub-classes in historical data was similar to the way genders had been characterized in Pre-Contact times. There was a lot of "basses are like this" and "sopranos are like that" - stuff reminiscent of the moronic characterizations of women and men in the past.

Imlorho went onto provide his latest findings:

"The Gastropods of Epsilon Indi III have four genders, the sperm-providers, the ova-providers, the cross-pollinators and the incubators."

Jasmin was interested in this but wondered how to fit these four reproductive roles to the four choral sub-classes. She started thinking over the historical descriptions:

"Sopranos were garish and attention-seeking like peacocks... Altos were modest and dowdy like peahens... Tenors were rare but vital to the group and moved quickly to-and-fro... Basses rarely moved and got sat on a lot."

Some linkages were forming in her mind, but Jasmin wanted more data to help secure the four-genders argument, and some way of visualizing these elusive Pre-Contact Terrans would be useful.

"Imlorho, did you also find any imagery associated with the sub-class names?"

"I have located images of puzzling artifacts associated with the sub-class names - sending now."

Jasmin stared at what she was now seeing in her mind - what were they? These were objects like nothing she had ever seen and stirred in her a mixture of wonder and consternation. She read the text accompanying the images.

"What in the name of the Five Civilizations is a saxophone?"

* * * * *

Jasmin had gone off to the kitchenette to get another clone cell roll to help her think. She sat back down and asked Imlorho to tell her just what these things were supposed to be. Imlorho obliged.

“Saxophones are pneumatic component parts for machines of unknown function. The important data for us however are (a) the designations given to them and (b) the fact that in the era we are studying Terrans had a practice of naming some devices for the way they resembled particular Terran body-parts.”

Jasmin was confused: “What practice?”

“On some computers – for instance – sockets and plugs were designated 'female' and 'male' respectively.”

“Right… so… what you are saying is that these saxophones look like the genitalia of the different kinds of Chorister?”

“Affirmative.”

Jasmin looked critically at the saxophone images with biology now in mind.

“I must admit the Soprano Saxophone is rather phallic…”

They discussed the images further. A size comparison image was particularly useful. They decided that the Alto Saxophone was reminiscent of an ovipositor while the larger Tenor Saxophone was a similar organ but adapted for temporarily carrying and mixing genetic contributions from a Soprano and an Alto. Finally the massive Bass Saxophone looked just right for allowing an embryo to gestate in it.

The picture of the four genders of Choristers was coming together nicely thanks to the Saxophone images and the working model of the Gastropods of Epsilon Indi III. The thesis was now that Sopranos were males, Altos were females, and Tenors were sterile females evolved to facilitate reproduction.

As a final bit of evidence to fit the picture, Jasmin recalled that Basses were known to emit low frequency sounds. Such sounds were known to be soothing to the infantile forms of many species and so that worked for the Basses as a form of mobile uterus.

Jasmin smiled inwardly at another job well done and got to work on polishing their argument for presentation. Imlorho meanwhile decided that the lustre of the saxophones would look good on his carapace and started the process of altering his surface molecular structure to achieve the desired effect.

Jasmin approved of the end result: “Very shiny!”

For background on Jasmin and Imlorho see here. And just for the record - I am a bass.

Cross-posted here.

Free Fall

This is a short story I submitted to the City Of Monash Wordfest 2011. It is an historical fiction based loosely on the life of Aphra Behn (1640-1689).

Astrea threw herself bodily at the window and was suddenly careening through a cascade of glassy shards. In moments of life-challenging tension such as this, she would experience vivid recollections from her past. In an instant the tinkling shards became the spray-crowned waves seen from an ocean-faring sailing ship.

That voyage to and from the New World had been both the most joyous and the most sorrowful time in the life of the young English woman, but Astrea had become the mistress of her emotions. She locked away the sorrow and remembered only the joy. Her free fall into the hay cart that she knew to be under the window was a moment of visceral glee as she recalled the swaying of the ship, and the accompanying undulations of the hammock she had shared with her new-found lover of some years ago.

In another instant Astrea was back in the here-and-now, as she hit the hay and rolled off the cart, burst from a crouch to a run, and sprinted along the lane towards the closest canal, praising her boots and cursing her many-layered skirt as she did so.

Astrea relished her current life as a spy for the Crown. Even as a child of servants in a big provincial mansion, she had admired the lives and manners of the gentry. Her present profession allowed her to mix with her betters and experience the finery and intrigue of courtly society. Of course it was different here in the Netherlands - the lines between the nobility and the mercantile classes seemed much more hazy than in her homeland. Still that worked just fine for her - what mattered most was hearty fare, well-made clothes and a life so busy that she could forget the past by rushing madly into the future.

The echo of yells and running boots warned Astrea that she indeed had pursuers, so she turned into a tiny alleyway that took her to a parallel lane. Astrea always took walks round any premises she was likely to visit and it was times like this that her 'constitutionals' proved to be more than just a form of exercise. She paused for a moment to ensure that the parchment she had pilfered from her Dutch paramour was still securely stowed in her satin bodice. However, there was no rest for the wicked, so Astrea ran on, making for the canal that divided one district from another.

It had taken weeks for Astrea to get what she needed to complete her mission. She had located an exiled Englishman with Dutch naval connections who proved surprisingly resistant to her usual enticements. Finally she recognized an important fact - his preference for his own sex - and shifted her tactics to offering to broker for him a return to England and a pardon for his past crimes (crimes that had offended the government of the puritanical Cromwell but which could be overlooked by the re-instated Crown). This had gotten her what she needed - an invitation to a soiree at which she could get closer to those planning a coming maritime assault on England. Her timing was fortunate, as the modest stipend her spymaster provided had all but gone in the cause of good food, private lodgings and a new dress for the soiree.

Her lovely dress was now torn and sullied by her spectacular escape from the townhouse of the Viscount, but these were the risks Astrea took as a spy. Her calves were sore from sprinting and her thighs ached from her work of the preceding night in the bedchamber of her sweet yet stupid mark. She had now reached the canal and contemplated her distance to the closest footbridge. As she did so she glanced into the water, reflecting the blue sky of a cool morning, and was suddenly reminded of the mirror she had looked in several hours before.

A full-length mirror was a precious luxury and Astrea took the chance to observe herself, naked in the candlelight, her tresses and hands granting her a minimum of modesty. This she did only briefly, as her intent was to exhaust the Viscount to such a degree that she could then search his bureau thoroughly while he slept in the adjoining bedroom. Fortunately the Viscount was comely of form, with a deep sonorous voice and a much milder odour than most. Astrea also pondered, as she turned to face him, the gossip back home that the men of the Continent were more attentive in bed than were Englishmen, a rumour she was intent to test.

One thing Astrea knew was that entwining flesh with flesh was never simply that. Anyone of flesh-and-blood was bound to betray something of who they were while between the sheets and this was a very useful fact for a spy. However it was also a two-edged sword. The Viscount declared that Astrea was "as sweet as honey" and she retorted, smilingly, that she was more akin to the "Spices of Surinam". This then got them discussing the New World and Astrea was suddenly in her element as a teller of tales. She talked of what she had witnessed in her travels - of the strangeness of the natives and the misery of the slaves. Astrea presented her words with care and yet something in her manner must have told the Viscount more, for he mused that something had marred her innocence on her journey. At this Astrea changed the topic to one for which words are rarely needed, and discovered that the giggling talk of English lasses was right.

Later, while the Viscount fell into slumber, Astrea lay there thinking of Surinam. Something in the intuition and tenderness of the Dutchman evoked images of that other lover from some years back. Her brave and good Commodore had promised to both show her the world and to delve the fathoms of her heart. They had met on the crossing of the Atlantic and had parted only weeks later on the return voyage. How was it that such a fine and true hero as her Commodore could best three drunken slave-traders in a tavern brawl and yet fall prey to a tropical malady that Astrea herself had shrugged off in days? From the dismal day that the body of her love was cast into the ocean she had eschewed any prospect of caring for anyone and any notion of honouring anything but herself. Since then the work of a spy had become her path to honour and riches.

Her work now involved deciding how to escape the private guard of the Viscount. A passing skiff was a better bet than running to the closest bridge only to rush along even more lane ways. The skiff was on its way to deliver its wares to the harbour, a good destination for a spy on the run. She hoped she could jump the distance from the rim of the canal to the skiff. Astrea threw herself into the hands of fate as she leaped forward with all her power and will and, as she did so, her mind vexed her with another memory of what had caused her other free fall of that morning.

Astrea had been surprised at how quickly searching the bureau of the Viscount had revealed correspondence on the topic of ship numbers and movements in the Channel. The papers discussed only mundane facts but simply knowing what the Dutch knew would be a boon to her employers. Astrea turned towards the hall but suddenly the bedroom door opened and in walked the Viscount, wearing only breeches and sporting an expression blending surprised anger with just a hint of amusement. Astrea froze in mid-turn.

The Viscount declared that "my English strumpet is also a she-spy in wont of better skills at dissembling." Astrea desperately wanted to make some witty rejoinder but nothing came to her in the instant she decided to rush for the window and the hay cart below.

Later, her wit returned to her as Astrea grinned at the oarsman who had been startled by a disheveled yet striking woman landing on his cargo of tulip buds. She offered to tell him exactly why a lady such as herself should be landing in his vehicle but only if he agreed to let her off at the harbour. He added the further condition that she give him a kiss, to which she assented with a smirk and a roll of her eyes. Once more she was in her element as the teller of a tale even more outlandish than the truth. Her accidental rescuer was enthralled. Within the hour she was in a harbour tavern frequented by Englishmen, negotiating her safe passage home to deliver her documents.

Astrea sighed with exhaustion as she nursed an ale and reflected on her morning ordeal. She had to admit to herself that the deceptively incisive Viscount had shaken her confidence in her role as a spy. However her encounter with the oarsman suggested that her skills of wit and wordplay could be turned to a safer vocation, and she resolved to ingratiate herself with some playwrights and poets on her return to London.

As a writer of tall tales she could win both comfort and notoriety from her own desk. As she sipped at her drink she mused that this was a shrewd resolution as long as she never shared the tragic tale of her lost Commodore. Comedy would be the thing for Astrea and the mask she hid behind would continue to be a smiling one.

I am still some distance away from writing something that will impress judges of a short story contest. However I did enjoy writing it and so events like Wordfest provide an impetus to do that and to brave the somewhat embarrassing act of sharing my baby with the world.

Cross-posted here.