Planet Cactus

td Whittle

Posted on May 18th, 2013

We have some cactuses growing in pots on our back terrace. They are pretty and harmless, unless touched … or, so I’d thought. I had never really looked at them up close until recently. Robin took some photos of them out in the sunshine, thinking that I might enjoy them, and looking at the results made me realise two things: firstly, that I really like the aesthetics of cactuses, which I’d never thought much about until then; secondly, that we are harbouring an alien colony, which may or may not be planning to destroy us.

Nevertheless, they are tiny, so I think we don’t have to worry just yet. Having said that, anyone who ever read The Day of the Triffids understands that all it takes is a random catastrophe to strike humanity, permanently weakening our capacity for self-defense, in order for botanical horrors to take over our planet. And to think that people have been worrying about zombies all this time.

This one is pretty, I think …

And these little suckers are going to get us one of these days …

If you don’t believe me, look at the close-up …

I’m pretty sure the one on the left is the Leader. He looks authoritative, even if he’s bit freaked out from being photographed.

So the next time you are admiring your favourite succulents, you might consider snapping off those creepy little ETs popping out all over them. If not, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The classic survival guide to botanical world domination …

Furthermore, at the risk of sounding udderly paranoid, I think it’s best not to turn our backs on our bovine companions, either. I’d advise you to stop eating them, too. I think they bear a grudge, and who can blame them? Report here http://www.firstpr.com.au/show-and-tell/homeland-security/

Categories: Photo Sets and Galleries

Tagged: aliens, cactus

Beware the Possum Moon of Doom

td Whittle

Posted on May 5th, 2013

Before my husband and I married, he lived here in Melbourne, and I lived in Houston. We talked on the phone daily, usually during his mornings and my evenings, but that would vary, and the time of day we spoke would inevitably influence what was taking place in our surrounding environments. The first conversation we ever had about possums, which are nocturnal animals that frolic in the Melbourne suburbs come twilight, went something like this:

Him: “There’s a possum in my garden and I am watching it as I talk to you.”

Me: “Ugh. You should shoo it away. They are revolting. I am an animal lover, for the most part, but I find it hard to love feral rats and possums, and possums just look like gigantic rats to me, anyway. Besides, can’t they carry rabies?”

Him: “We don’t have rabies in Australia. Anyway, I think they’re beautiful creatures. Your Opossums must be different from our Possums, I think.”

Me: “Oh. Well, that’s not fair. How come you haven’t got rabies? And, seriously, Australian possums are beautiful?”

We then exchanged information on what we each knew of our native possums, and turned to Wikipedia to pull up some photos.

Me: “Wow! They are beautiful? Why do your possums look beautiful and ours are hideous?”

Him: “Hmm, it looks like your Opossum is a descendant of Nosferatu.

This is true, I suppose, but to be fair, we should recognise that the North American Opossums cannot help their prehensile, rat-like tails and long, sharp teeth; nor can they do much to refine nails that look like murder weapons from A Nightmare on Elm Street. Perhaps they are lovely once you get to know them, or, you know, from a certain angle and a certain light.

It’s been a decade now since I saw my first Australian possums. Robin and I live in a Melbourne suburb, in a house with a second-floor back terrace and a Japanese Maple overhanging it. We are visited by a variety of local wildlife, only some of which we can indulge with healthy treats. It turns out that the Sulphur-Crested Cockatoos will merrily devour the terrace, bit by bit, as if it were included in the price of dinner. In order to keep the terrace from utter destruction, we had to stop putting out birdseed for them.

Flying Foxes (fruit bats) frequent the Angophora tree next door, and it is these we suspect of having stripped our almond tree of every last almond, leaving us not even one nut to share between us. The mother and babe Common Brushtail Possums who visit us each evening have caused no problems whatsoever, though, and it’s endlessly entertaining to watch them. They trust us well enough to take bits of apple right from our hands now.

It was during a recent evening feed that I asked Robin, our family photographer, to see if he could get a photo of the two of them. It should have looked something like this and, in fact, the pose you see in that photo is common, since the young one will often grapple for space with the mother, and even snitch its food directly from her mouth (despite the fact that we provide ample fruit and nuts for both of them, and it can eat just as well from the dish).

By the time he got the camera ready, and set up the shot for infrared, the baby had hopped down from the branch, and the night had fully descended. What we ended up with is the scary picture you see at the top of this post. Robin told me that the shot had not worked out, so I didn’t bother to look at it myself. Then today, as I was looking through our photo folders, I found this photo and thought it was a pretty cool shot of the Moon. I am somewhat Moon obsessed, so this would not be out of place in our photos. I couldn’t make out the possum shape at all, but assumed I was looking at a dark, cloudy night, with obscured bits of infrastructure in the foreground.

Once Robin explained that the Moon was a hollowed-out possum eye, the photo lost some its beauty, mystery, and charm. Still, it has something to it, from a certain angle and a certain light. If this were a Tarot Card, it would be telling you that you have no future to speak of: “The end draws near, says the Possum Moon of Doom.” Those hollowed-out eyes do chill my soul.

Categories: Photo Essays

Tagged: Australia, Common Brushtail, opossum, possum, texas

The Trap

Sandra Peterson Ramirez

Posted on April 22nd, 2013

“A trap is only a trap if you don’t know about it. If you know about it, it’s a challenge.”
~China Miéville, King Rat

Categories: Photo Sets and Galleries

Book Review: The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break, by Steven Sherrill

td Whittle

Posted on April 17th, 2013

The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break by Steven Sherrill
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Here’s my advice and the three-word version of my review: read this book.

There are some excellent reviews already here on Goodreads about The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break, and I don’t have an especially brilliant addition to make to those. What I would say, though, is that the book is worth reading because the writing is sublime. It’s at turns funny and tragic. It engages our empathy in a way that reminds us – however uncomfortably – that we, too, are instinct-driven animals lurking beneath the more refined parts of our neocortex; that we are somewhat freakish and terribly vulnerable; and that, frequently, we are wholly or partially inadequate in managing our lives and loves. It’s also viscerally disturbing in parts, as many reviewers have pointed out.

Side note: There is a total of one sex scene in this book. Crossing as it does the beast-human line, it could easily cause some readers to toss the book aside as grotesque and repellent. To be sure, the way the scene ends is distressing, but not for the reasons one might think – and I won’t explain that here because it’s the anti-climactic climax of the book. But the achingly tender good will with which the girl and the Minotaur approach each other, sadly fumbling towards love, was beautiful to me (and I assume to many others). The reason I mention this is because sex scenes are notoriously difficult to write, even for very good writers, and it requires a great deal of generosity on the part of readers not to say, “Well, that was stupid-awful-unrealistic-boring…” It speaks highly of Sherrill’s sensibilities and skills as a writer that he handles even this delicate and difficult material with a deft touch. The sex is messy, awkward, and unnatural; but the writing is none of those things.

Side note two: I am a little put off by reviewers who have compared Steven Sherrill unfavourably to Neil Gaiman. I think this comparison has popped up because Gaiman recommends the book as one that he’s enjoyed himself, and because Gaiman had much to do with its becoming an audio book. (Although I’ve provided a link to the audio book, I’ve not heard it myself so can’t say what it’s like.) But the only literary link between Gaiman’s and Sherrill’s work, as far as I can tell, is that they both have written books that started with the question: what would it be like if the characters of ancient myth were still around today, trying to cope with the modern world? It’s a fascinating question, but the two authors chose to explore the answers in entirely different ways, with Sherrill taking the literary high road, and Gaiman taking the lower, popular fiction one (arguably more fun, but certainly less philosophically and intellectually challenging).

I like Gaiman. Gaiman is a good storyteller and an excellent graphic artist. He paints in bright colours with a broad brush on a big canvas. His plots are well crafted, tending towards grand denouement, and his themes fantastic and imaginative. I would add, though, that in all I’ve read of his books, his metaphors are too obvious; his chosen words simple worker bees that get the job done; and his characters archetypes who remain archetypes – and sometimes blank stereotypes – who are rarely explored beyond the basics of what the reader needs to know in order to move the plot forward. But he is funny, smart, and sparkling fresh in the way that he tells a tale, so I do enjoy reading him.

Sherrill is an entirely different kind of artist. He is an eloquent, reflective, and subtle writer who pays close attention to detail, and to whom the words chosen matter a great deal. He is trying to do more than entertain us. He shows us a microcosm revealing some of the more harrowing, cruel, and disgusting aspects of humanity, while simultaneously (and there’s the hard bit) showing us that there is still the possibility of redemption – or at least momentary reprieve – through acts of kindness, compassion, and love. Readers may feel a whole slew of conflicting emotions both during and after reading Minotaur, and may come away from it thinking, “What did I just read?! Am I okay with that? Should I be okay with that? Does it matter, either way?” You will not come away from a Gaiman book with those kinds of questions troubling you (probably); but that is okay, that is not Gaiman’s goal.

One of Gaiman’s weak points, in my opinion, is his fumbling attempts at depicting adult romantic and sexual relationships. He seems unable to do this in a way that seems genuine and … well … grown up; so that we believe he knows something true and substantial about the how real adults interact with each other, and the complex, nuanced layers of feeling that such relationships evoke. Surely he does know these things – I do not doubt it – but he cannot write it. Gaiman does not write convincingly about man-woman interplay in either American Gods or Neverwhere. The characters’ romantic relationships in both books are insubstantial and stereotyped. It only matters when it matters, of course, and in these two books I’ve mentioned, it really does matter. This weakness detracts from the work. Sherrill, on the other hand, carries this off beautifully, even though the romantic anti-hero in his book is the Minotaur, who is as clumsy in his expressions of love as he is in other aspects of life. In such passages as this, Sherrill’s prose sings with an emotional and sexual authenticity that Gaiman’s does not come near. One needn’t use a lot of words to achieve this kind of gutsy realness, but they have to be the right words at the right time. The words matter.

Part of the reason Sherrill is able to depict the agony and ecstasy of romance, love, and lust so well is because his Minotaur is not presented solely as an archetype. The Minotaur is an archetype, yes, but he is also a person, and a complicated one at that. We believe in the Minotaur and want him to come out okay in the end, even as we struggle with some of the choices he makes – or fails to make – due to his crippling inability to cope with human situations in a fully human way. (Of course, many humans share this inadequacy, too, which is one of Sherrill’s points.) Sherrill has tethered the Minotaur myth to a post of gritty reality in order to hold taut our suspension of disbelief. The book is replete with details of daily lives lived at the grubby end of the socio-economic spectrum: poorly paid but all-that’s-available work; grinding poverty; exhausting heat and squalor; the repetitive and tedious chores required to maintain one’s physical existence and bodily integrity; the force of will it takes to keep up decent relationships with neighbours, whose own lives seem as flimsy as the worn out trailers they live in. Still, it’s community. And there’s hope in that. Some reviewers have described the book as slow, as plodding, or as dull; but I did not find it so. It is essential to the book that we feel the day to day reality of the Minotaur’s life. As Sherrill explains it, an old professor of his once taught him that “the more outlandish the premise is, the more grounded the other elements must be.” 1

I had not heard of Steven Sherrill or this book until I read some reviews on Goodreads, but as I read his biography at the end of the book, I was not surprised to learn that he is a poet. I had wondered, as I read The Minotaur, whether the poems in the book were his own. Turns out, they are. They are worth the price of the book on their own. But read the whole book, because of the words the words the words. How they are arranged on the pages.

If you click below on the words Read more, you can enjoy the original poem by Sherrill that inspired his book.

Categories: Book Reviews and Essays

Tagged: Neil Gaiman, Steven Sherrill, The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break

13 Ways: Traveling Heart

Sandra Peterson Ramirez

Posted on April 11th, 2013

“It’s not going to last,” she said, carefully squeezing the lime into her drink and giving it a thorough stir.

“You sound very sure.” He tried to keep the hope out of his voice. They’d done this dance before. Many times.

“She doesn’t like to travel.” She dipped one finger in the drink, ran it along the rim and then licked the salt, tasting it.

“But you just went to Vegas?” He hated the question in his voice. Hated the tingle of excitement elicited by watching her lick her fingers. Hated that he wanted details to think about later.

She shot him a look of disgusted amusement. “Vegas isn’t traveling. It’s…” She searched for a word.

He waited, knowing better than to help. When she wanted help, she’d say.

“Vegas is preschool. She doesn’t have a fucking passport.”

He nodded, made a sympathetic sound, and waited. They sat and sipped. From their vantage point of the leather chairs in the corner, they had a view of the bar, the large flat screen TV and the entrance. She watched the customers move in and out around the bar, trying to get the attention of the bartender or each other. He tried watching the game, but kept letting his eyes slide back to her. She was, if nothing else, exactly his type. Fully fifteen years younger. Petite. Long dark hair. Given to having spontaneous, uninhibited sex and then disappearing for days or weeks and once for several months.

“Plus she’s kind of a lesbian.”

“Well, to be fair, many women who have sex with other women are.”

She sighed. “I know I know, but…ok, you know that joke about lesbians bringing a U-Haul on the second date?”

“Yes, so she…?”

“She started talking about the future. In Vegas, no less. I’m looking to have fun, go dancing, get laid and she’s talking about looking for a bigger apartment. Or a house! You know for ‘her dog’. Right.”

He thought about it for a minute. Wondering why her arrogance never even fazed him. It always just seemed warranted. “Maybe she just wants more room for her dog?”

She snorted. “She’s looking to nest. Trust me, I’ve seen it before.”

He couldn’t think of a response for that, so again they sat in silence. He didn’t kid himself. He knew he was waiting for her to make a move. She sighed and held up her margarita, examining it. “Three, two, one. The perfect mix,” and then downed it with only a slight shudder.

He knew what she meant. He’d heard her order it enough times. Three parts tequila, silver, top shelf; two part fresh lime juice; and one part Cointreau. Rocks. Salt, but not too much. But whenever she said “three, two, one” he remembered something else she’d said.

They were on his bed–it was always his bed because she didn’t bring anyone back to her place. Ever. They’d had sex and she was naked and had a joint, that had been tucked in her jeans pocket, pinched between thumb and finger. She rolled over to her back, stretched luxuriantly and suggestively, said “three, two, one” and inhaled deeply. He’d looked at her quizzically. She’d laughed and for the first time, maybe the only time, he’d thought it wasn’t a pretty sound. “Rule number one: no more than three dates.” It had felt like a judgment. After all, it had been their third date. And it was after that night that he hadn’t seen her for months. He’d called, texted, emailed, but no response.

When he did see her again it had been at a party and she’d been someone else’s date, but she’d been bored and had left with him. Back to his place. She would occasionally meet him “just for drinks” and occasionally have sex with him “just for fun”, but they hadn’t had what you’d call a date since that night. A friend had stated sympathetically that he’d become her booty call. But there were worse things, right?

She carefully set the empty glass down, stood, and slung her oversized purse over her shoulder. “Well, I’ve got to go. I have a date.”

“With your girlfriend?”

Short laugh, “No, not tonight.” And she was gone.

He paid the tab and tipped the bartender well, despite his disappointment. On the way to his car he thumbed through his cell phone contacts, found what he was looking for, and tapped the number.

“Hey, what are you up to tonight?….”

Photo and text by Sandra Peterson-Ramirez.

What does 13 Ways mean?

All of our posts with 13 Ways in the title are part of an ongoing creative project, which you can read about here:

13 Ways: our illustrated stories series

Categories: 13 Ways: our illustrated story series

Tagged: fiction, short story

Do Not Disturb

Sandra Peterson Ramirez

Posted on April 6th, 2013

“Alone. Yes, that’s the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn’t hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.” ~Stephen King

Categories: Photo Sets and Galleries

Book Review: Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, by Haruki Murakami

td Whittle

Posted on March 30th, 2013

Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World by Haruki Murakami
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

So here’s the thing about Haruki Murakami that turns my brain into fairy floss: how is it that this 60ish Japanese guy writes in such a way that I feel he is exploring not only his own psychic underworld, but also mine? (I should mention here that I am not likewise a 60ish Japanese guy.) Given his rampant popularity across cultures, I am assuming I am not the only one who has this experience. His fans seem to return to him like … Well, like whatever the 2013 version of a crack whore returning to the den is … No, more like an opium den, isn’t it? Okay, how about an opium den that sometimes alternates as a meth lab? Yes, that feels about right.

The drugs, of course, are only a metaphor. You don’t need to use drugs to read Murakami, because the reading creates a similar effect all on its own. I sound as if I am joking, but that is only partly true. In fact, after finishing his books (and I’ve read the majority of them now), I often feel a sense of distorted perception, and of being only half-bound to the earth. It does pass over time – minutes or hours, depending on what I am doing.

What is this Murakami effect and how many of us are susceptible to it? I have this feeling when reading his books that I am watching someone clear out the closet of our Collective Unconscious: all hunkered down there in mounds of trash and treasure, occasionally tossing an old boot or shabby undergarment over his shoulder while yelling, “Hey, Tina, isn’t this one yours?” (“Uh, yeah, actually, I was wondering where that had got off to …”)

I should apologise at this point, for people who thought this might actually be a proper review. I don’t think I can rightly call it a review, as it’s not focused on the book’s literary merits (or otherwise) but wholly on my emotional experience of reading it, which evokes my responses to his other works, too. All his prodigious talent aside, I read Murakami because I feel as if he touches on something deep and elusive in the world, and in me as part of the world, that I can only barely begin to grasp at myself, like chasing butterflies: something I sense is there, but that is ephemeral as a shadow in my peripheral vision. The fact that he works his magic through characters who are themselves often difficult to connect with (and yet, we do connect); with characters who are usually damaged in an somewhat vague but significant way; with characters who love to have “nice, long talks” but who often cannot say what they most need and want to say; and with plot twists that challenge our suspension of disbelief, even within the madness of Murakami World, makes him all the more fascinating to me.

Categories: Book Reviews and Essays

Tagged: book review, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, Haruki Murakami

A Reader’s Question: Is it important for protagonists to be likeable?

td Whittle

Posted on March 9th, 2013

nine-books-622x681

“This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.”
― Dorothy Parker, The Algonquin Wits

Today, while perusing Goodreads, I became interested in a thread about John Kennedy Toole’s picaresque novel, A Confederacy of Dunces , which a couple of readers declared they’d set aside unfinished, because they did not like the main characters. I love A Confederacy of Dunces for many reasons, but I would say that the likeableness of Ignatius, Irene, and Myrna the Minx had little to do with my overall enjoyment and appreciation of the book. I am not sure that I even asked myself questions about their personal charms (or lack thereof) while reading it, except for considering that a woman would have to have very peculiar tastes to want Ignatius as a sexual partner, and thinking that afternoon tea with the family would be hilarious.

Having said that, it is not uncommon on Goodreads and other book discussion forums to come across disenchanted readers complaining about unlikeable protagonists. Over the past year or so, I have read the following opinions: “I quit reading because I did not like the character(s);” “I hated this book because I did not like the character(s);” and, “I stopped liking this book halfway through when X did Y because it disgusted me.” (These are an amalgam of the types of comments made, rather than specific quotes.) In considering these comments, I began to wonder how important it is for readers to like, or even love, the protagonists of their books. Is this a necessary feeling, or set of feelings, for most people to experience, in order to engage fully with a book?

Categories: Book Reviews and Essays

Tagged: Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Garcia-Marquez, Lolita, Love in the Time of Cholera, MacBeth, Nabokov, Othello, Patchett, protagonists, reading, Shakespeare, Shriver, State of Wonder, The AGE arguments about VCE curriculum, The Great Gatsby, The Sound and the Fury, We Need to Talk about Kevin

Happy Birthday, Sandra!

td Whittle

Posted on February 10th, 2013

Dear Sandra,

Your birthday is already happening on my side of the world, but it’s yet to arrive on yours. (It all seems to be going just fine, so far ;) I thought you should wake up to a hot and steamy cup of coffee and a special birthday post. How better to begin the day but with birthday haiku? These are three of my favourites:

Years may come and go

but our friends and memories…

what was I saying?

It is your birthday!

Drop everything and have cake.

You don’t have to share.

(Since I am not there.)

(And since I added that line, this is no longer a true haiku; but will it do, since it is true?)

Happy Birthday, friend!

May today’s coffee be strong

and the day inspired.

A great big, heartfelt Happy Birthday to you, my wonderful and beloved friend! I wish I were there to share those delectable cakes with you, and a bottle of bubbly, too. I hope you have a delightful day and an even better year ahead. And now, I am off on a bike ride to celebrate!

With love and wishes that all good things come your way,

Tina xoxoxo

Categories: Miscellany

Tagged: birthday haiku, bubbly, cakes, happy birthday, sandra's birthday

The Chocolate Has Spoken

Sandra Peterson Ramirez

Posted on January 30th, 2013

Categories: Miscellany