For TinyDonna

When I went to Karen's book launch the other day, I had a few (only a few) minutes to wander around with camera in hand, and I was struck by how beautiful the new Eureka tower is, so here are two views of it: one with nature, and an "old and the new".

The whisper of leaves by KS Nikakis (published by Allen & Unwin)

My city trip today was to attend one of my past-student's book launch, and this must surely be one of the most validating experiences for a writing teacher. How wonderful it is to see your students making that successful foray out into the sometimes difficult waters of the publishing world. How wonderful it is to see a student who you know is passionate about her work, passionate about the genre she's writing in and passionate about the craft. It's especially nice when the writer is writing in a genre you (or me, in this case!) love. And it's invigorating to know that we as teachers have, in whatever small way, helped someone to realise a dream.

It's also lovely to see someone dedicated enough to finish something. We see a lot of talented students, but some will never take those extra steps of finishing and then polishing a draft (or re-visioning and rewriting and polishing subsequent drafts), and then sending the manuscript out! If writers don't make that last courageous move -- and it does require enormous courage -- then they will never be published. That's not to say the journey has been wasted -- the destination is not important for everyone and nor should it be, but it is extremely rewarding for those who want to get there and who do the legwork to then be successful as Karen has been.

I hope Karen finds the publishing experience all she wants it to be, and that she's on the way to a stellar career!

The chaos that is Connex

One thing I love about the public transport system is the chaos that surrounds me. Today, for example, I'm returning home from the city and board the Werribee bound train at Flinders St. On the way, I start reading my new book and am quickly immersed in a foreign land. I glance up and see that the next station, according to the flashing message inside the carriage, is Macauley. Huh? I don't ride the train very often, but I don't ever remember going through Macauley station. Probably an error, I think, and return to the book, but when I feel the train slowing, I glance up at the station sign: Macauley. I'm still in denial at this stage. The train heads out. Next stop: Flemington Bridge. Huh? So I get out, along with half a dozen other confused looking people. Here's the view at Flemington Bridge, which was different to the normal suburban views I was expecting.


Someone asks me whether I know how to get to the other platform as the ramps look a bit deceiving. I say, no, I thought I was on the Werribee train. So did they. And so did the older man who's looking worried. We head off to the other platform, and wait for a train back to the city. At North Melbourne, we're joined by about 20 other people, who've obviously jumped off at Macauley or at whatever came after Flemington Bridge. I can hear much muttering, but the really funny thing is the suspicion we all greet the next train with.

It all makes me remember those New Year's Eve fireworks we went to a few years ago. We went to the early fireworks to get the kids home early, then the train was cancelled, and then because it ran so late they decided to save time by running it express, but neglected to tell anyone. Yeah, saved lots of time if you wanted to get off at one of those bypassed stations, as we did. By the time we got off at the next station and waited for the same train to go all the way to the end of the line and back again, we'd run out of NYE, and ended up seeing the New Year in on the train. What a letdown. The journey home took the better part of two hours.

Nice sunsets

One thing about living near a westward facing swamp is that we get some great sunsets. Followers of my swamp blog may fear that it's moved from cloud appreciation to sunset appreciation, but that's only a temporary thing. Here's another view of last night's sunset. You might wonder why I chose to focus the swamp view where I did (you might not be following that blog at all, of course!), but basically while the water views are more spectacular, they don't vary much. But the dry parts of the swamp periodically fill with water, and this was what interested me: the swamp's changing face. Honestly, I could sit outside and watch the swamp all day long.

Frolics at the beach

After all the running around of the last two days, I haven't had much of a chance to get out with the dogs, so today, after Princess Sleepyhead's piano lessons, to celebrate her having passed her latest piano practical exam (she got the results today) we took the two dogs for a walk. Along the way, we seemed to pick up a German Shepherd, who was intent on humping poor little Luna. (Now she's had both ends of the spectrum interested in her, because at puppy school it was a Chihuahua trying to get at her. Boys!) In the end, PH had to pick Luna up, at which point the Shepherd put his front paws on PS's shoulders and had a go at her. It was only a pup itself (big pup!), and its owner was mortified, but it was quite funny because they looked like a conga line.



As we were coming out, some people arrived with horses, and how naughty is this dog. She chased the horses, barking, and refused to be caught. Poor PS had to wade out after her.

Trying for the Chenna look

Here's a picture post-transfusion. Beth's having a reflective moment, not sure whether or not she wants to be black-and-white and just wishing she could've done something more to help out Fox.

Unhappy endings

I picked my cat, Beth, up from the vet's today. She was okay, if somewhat balder for the experience of having given blood. Her whole chest and part of one leg have been shaved, so now it looks like I have a black-and-white cat. When I picked her up, they were just prepping Lita's cat Fox for surgery.

Sadly, Fox didn't make it through. Lita has done so much -- everything humanly possible -- but sometimes it just isn't enough. I know she worried that she might have condemned him to a life of misery had he survived, but I think we do what we can do, with the information that we have and the resources that are at hand, and she really went to heroic measures. I'm sure Fox is sitting up there somewhere, content to know that his family treated him as just that: family! Vale, Fox.

Blogless and catless (both temporary)

I've got a really sore finger at the moment, which is hampering efforts to type. Not sure how I did it, but there it is. And it's kept me blogless, but also I've been really tired -- too many late nights, early mornings and not enough sleep inbetween. Then there's been sick husbands and sick kids. A test to write. Assignments to mark. It's all conspired to keep me blogless and writing free for a few days -- a source of great frustration.

The cat's away on her sabbatical at the vet, possibly donating blood as I write. Lita rang last night to ask me to bring her in at 9 am (well, actually, Lita offered to pick her up at 7 am). I said 9 might be a problem because I had to get kids off to school -- of course, what I didn't count on was a truck breaking down on the Westgate, so by the time we got there it was nearly 10. Poor Beth was beside herself the whole way -- in direct contrast to her last trip over. But last time she'd had food; this time she was fasting, and she does not like fasting, as she let me know on Monday when the call to say she didn't have to fast came in at 2 pm. Nevermind. I just hope Fox makes it through all this, and of course that Beth does too. But her risks are minimal, whereas for him the risks are more substantial. So fingers crossed, say a prayer -- whatever works.

It's a cat's life -- or why it doesn't pay to be nice! (according to Beth)

Or not. Today, my cat Beth has been for a drive over the Westgate Bridge to Richmond, and then on to Mount Waverley for a blood test. Fox, an acutely ill cat, belongs to Lita, one of my writing friends. Fox needs a splenectomy and partial removal of his liver on Monday, but may need a blood transfusion before then, and as Fox's brother, the inelegantly named Mr Spit, is not compatible, Lita was doing a ringaround to see whose cat might match. So Ellen, another writing friend, brought her devilcat (yes, it is officially one word now -- as from today!) Chenna, and I took my far more amenable Beth, the whopper cat for testing. Fox was home, waiting for his visit to the vet's tomorrow.

Lita has just returned from several months in South America, so it was lovely to catch up, though of course we all wished for better circumstances. Ellen and I have been good friends ever since Aussiecon back in nineteen hundred and something, but lately we see each other virtually far more than we do in the flesh. Three writers, one starving son doing the famine, two cats and a veterinary clinic. The poor cats were whisked away -- they didn't want the owners in attendance. Ellen warned them as they were going that the devilcat could be a bit vicious. Then she warned them again that they had better don gloves. I told them Beth was placid. So they decided to test her first.

Happily for Fox, Beth is a match. The nurses came out and said they hadn't been able to get their hands in Chenna's cage, and perhaps Lita would be happy not to have her tested. But Lita wanted to keep her options open. A few minutes later the nurses sent out the big gun: the vet. Not only was Beth a match, but because she's a big whopper of a cat, she was also a more suitable donor. They didn't really mention the temperment. Not often you see the vet staff scared of a cat, but I swear they were scared of Chenna. I'm sure Beth let them prod and poke and shave her without complaint. Not Chenna. She had their number, and she was ringing it!

Anyhow, the main thing is there is a suitable donor should Fox need one. Beth's home tonight; she's eaten -- the worst part of tomorrow for her, whether or not she has to give blood, might be the fasting while waiting on Lita's phone call, after Fox has had his platelet count done. Beth isn't one to give up food for anyone -- she's not quite as fussy about her blood!

40-hour famine

My son has decided to do the forty-hour famine, not something I would have encouraged because he's barely old enough to be allowed. Still, he will no doubt find it an interesting experience. I know in my writing I've drawn on my experiences of hunger -- usually from my travelling days when either I or my friend was short of money. She ran out of money in Greece, and though I offered to pay for her food, she refused -- she also refused a loan -- and I could hardly eat in front of her. Every morning we would have a yoghurt and that was it. And for the week we were there, we lay on the beach every day and talked about food. Food was all we could talk about. It was an obsession. We went to bed at night and talked about food. Sometimes we got dizzy. On our last night there we went out to a restaurant, and ordered only an entree. It was wonderful, though the owner seemed mystified when we said we didn't want a main course. Then when we returned to London, I ran out of money and, because she had refused to take my money, I refused to take hers. I was staying in a B&B (very cheap one full of Aussies, where our window was broken and people could step into our bedroom from the street), so I had breakfast every day, and then we went to Portobello Road, and I bought seven oranges for 50 pence, and that was my food for a week. One girl I travelled with briefly told me how she shared a flat with three others, and they had no money and would share a tin of baked beans for dinner. Because that was all they had to eat, they always counted out the individual beans. So I know a little about hunger -- not real hunger, where lassitude stops you talking about food, where you can't be bothered walking or even breathing. Very few Westerners have experienced that.

But my son is doing a triple challenge. He's not just eschewing food but technology and furniture. No computer. No telephone. No television. No electrical lighting. Early to bed for him! No sitting on chairs. No sleeping in a bed. He's either going to love or hate the floor when this is over. For me, the worst part would be no computer. Imagine if I wanted to write and couldn't! No, I couldn't do that. Absolute torture. These days, like many Westerners, I'm overly reliant on my tech.

It will be interesting to see how he copes. I'll help him out as much as I can. Dinner Saturday night will be food he doesn't like. But I'm just wondering how grumpy he's going to be. I hope he doesn't pass out -- my mother fainted while fasting once. I've fasted from time to time, usually successfully, but on the odd occasions almost passed out. He does love his food, and his technology -- but, as we all do, takes his furniture for granted. It will be interesting to see which one he misses most.

Living on swamp's edge

You know it's great living at the back of a swamp -- nice views and all that -- except when it's not nice.

What's not to like? Other than mosquitoes -- and they can be no mean thing to ignore.

Then there's the birds, and what they do to the washing. Four or five soiled articles is not unusual. And if a pelican's flying overhead then watch out. The Gadget Man got hit by a pelican missile once -- after it bounced off a tree. Not a pretty sight.

Then there's the frogs. Today, there was a large, bloated dead frog upside-down in the dogs' water bowl. Ick.

Nice views though.

Titles

Titles really are not my thing. I struggle with them. My friend Sherryl who thinks she struggles with them -- at least I think she thinks she struggles with them -- is brilliant at them. She can always be relied upon to cough up some title more deep, more meaningful, more nuanced and layered than I ever could. Frankly, I suck at titles.

When I started my swamp blog, I knew what I wanted to call it. Swamp. Short and simple. Easy. But when I tried to get that address for my tumblog, it was already taken. So I went for Swamp Musings. But as I've been musing over my swamp blog, I'm starting to think I should've called it "An appreciation of clouds", because that's what it seems to be about as much as the swamp. This year we are having some great clouds! Here's a photo of today's clouds, and one naughty dog (paddling in the distance) who escaped out the front door and ran off.


But back on the subject of titles. I had my novel titles all worked out: Shadow Knight, Shadow Fall and Shadow and Pariah. Of course, when I first worked out my titles, years ago, there weren't as many shadow titles around. Then Raymond Feist brought ot a shadow-titled book as did one of my friends. And then a magazine came out called Shadow Fall. And when I really think about it, my main character isn't a knight -- he's a soldier. So now I've decided that the first book is going to be called Shadow and Pariah, but I have no idea about books two and three -- only that they will have to follow the same sort of formula. Parallel construction is a beautiful thing! I can see that's why Philip Pullman's first book was titled The Golden Compass in the States, rather than using it's UK and Australian title Northern Lights. Anyway, I suppose in time the titles will come. No point getting stressed about it.

Puppy School

This evening I've been to puppy school with Luna. To my surprise she was very timid, not like her big "sister" who adored puppy school and was rollicking around having a great time within minutes. On the other hand, I remember how traumatic that experience was because I'd just slammed my hand in the car door on my way in, and had almost passed out. I was in so much pain, and Georgia weed and pooed, and then I got dizzy and had to leave the room and didn't notice that the only chair outside was now sitting on the scales, and up I hopped... Oh, dear. Tonight was much less traumatic, even if the little chihuahua did keep trying to hump Luna, and all she did was lie down.

She's just had her vaccinations so we can finally take her out for walks. First big walk was to the dog beach. Second was several kms closer to home (walking distance from here if you're keen) to another off-lead area, which is a park with beach frontage. How nice is this place. (Though the dogs prefer the dog beach at low tide, for its tidal flats.) Here they are at the beach -- a confident Georgia and more unsure Luna checking out the surf, and just a photo of the path. I love walking along here. So picturesque.

Silent running

I've been blogless the last few days. Silent running. (A favourite film of mine -- and I forgave Bruce Dern every villain he played after Freeman Lowell!) Words have not been my friends. My sore hand has been healing. So that's not why. Perhaps it's been that I've been preoccupied with work and trying to get our Industry Overview online unit up in time. It seemed that every time I thought I had things under control, some other technical glitch would get in the way: moving to a new teaching platform, my computer not having a sound card and the other computer I could use not having enough RAM to edit audio files, the files being too big to put on the platform. It really has been a matter of two steps forward and three steps back. Especially, yesterday, when I spent hours uploading files to the system, and finding my computer crashing with every second file (don't ask me why because I don't know), and then, finally, it was all done, and I'd created a whole lot of links on the homepage. Victory. Except then I decided I wanted the links in a folder and to move them I had to delete the links, only ZAPPO! The whole learning modules, every one of them, disappeared. Such fun. Maybe that should read five steps back. I have been spending quite a bit of time at home doing it, admittedly. Time that should have been writing time. I was on a deadline, and I find deadlines very motivating things. But I'm not sure that was it either.

I think it's been more family issues -- Gadget Man working long hours and having to get up really early, Sir Talkalot missing his bus most days, which means I have to drive him to school, Princess Sleepyhead being her usual uncooperative self. Of course the children's universes star them as the central beings, so they don't really care that everyone else gets put out. Anyway, enough moaning. I may be quiet for the next three days because I've promised myself three big writing days. Time to wrack up some big word counts and get things rolling.

Time out

Since we've been in this house, we've had two absolutely exceptional sunsets. One was the day of my daughter's pool party in our first summer here, and we had another several months ago. On Tuesday night we had a third, but I was at work. I went into my editing classroom (across the corridor from the brilliant display of fiery yellow, orange and scarlet that completely filled the darkening sky) and asked if they'd all seen the sunset. They pointed out the window to a much-darker sky that had a deep purplish luminesence. Quite beautiful in its own right. I told them not that side, but opposite and, to their astonishment, dragged them out of class to go and look. It was sensational, and I wished I were at home with my camera, so I could capture it for my swamp blog. But, of course, I wasn't. So I have only the memory of it.

My students were astounded because they know I try to wring every minute out of the class. But if we're going to be writers, we have to experience everything we can in life; we have to wallow in life's beauty, let it seep through our skin, into our veins to run with our blood. That sunset will find its way into a scene in one of my novels. As will the lively scent of jasmine, the thick and smooth sweetness of mango nectar. Whether writers or not, we have to take time out of the craziness that surrounds us to live -- really live, and that means savouring every moment of beauty, feeling every moment of pain. But it's especially important to writers -- we can get so caught up in our words that we forget to feed the fire.

100 years of scouting

This morning, I, along with 999 other people -- most of them cubs/scouts/venturers/rovers/scout leaders -- had breakfast with the Governor of Victoria at Government House to celebrate the first hundred years of world scouting. Apparently, on this day, in 1907, Lord Baden Powell blew a horn to announce the beginning of the first ever scout camp.

I went as my son's guest. I think I had pictured (having toured Government House) a very long elegantly set table, and gourmet food. Instead I got a giant tent -- okay, marquee -- and eggs and bacon, scout style. Rather appropriate, really. It was an interesting, if a bit too early for me.

I've included some photos of Government House, the gardens there and the marquee.

Life in bright colours

Yesterday was an exemplary example of how apt the title of this blog describes my life. Picture the scenario. (Written in historical present, which we've been talking about in class last night.)

My novel class is just finishing. I have my phone out, which I've been using as my clock. My students are told they are not to have their mobile phones on unless they're expecting an emergency call. It's okay, because mine never rings. But today the unexpected happens: the phone rings. I answer it. It is my son, telling me he is sick, and that I have to come and pick him up.

"I'm at work. I can't. But I'll ring Mum." I wave to my students. The other editing teacher is waiting to speak to me.

"I've already rung and spoken to Opa. Oma's in the country."

Great. Now what am I going to do? There's no-one else I can call. "How sick are you?" I say, knowing he has just come back from music camp the day before and, although hoarse, spent the night doing much yelling.

"My stomach hurts, and I want to come home."

"I'll have to bring you back into work. You'll be here till 10 pm."

"That's okay. I've got sport after school anyway, and if I do stay I'll have to catch the late bus, and I won't be home till after eight."

"Can't you just miss sport and catch the normal bus home?"

"You know I can't."

"Okay."

So, I go and get him and bring him home. The first thing he does is let the dogs out, and the big dog knicks off down to the swamp. Because she's eaten her collar, she has on no identification, and is impossible to catch. So I send him out to round her up, and try to deal with the puppy. Inside, I find my daughter's lunch on the bench. My son was supposed to put it in her bag -- one of his few trade-off jobs for getting me to drive him to school. She was too late for breakfast and now has had no snack or lunch.

I deal with a few things at home and get my son a pillow and doona. On the way out, I spot a piece of cardboard with what looks like computer toner smeared all over it, in the backyard with the dogs. Toner is carcinogenic, so I think I'd better get it from them. Once around the back, I notice my dogs are multicoloured -- not just the red and white hues of the toller, but I'm talking vermilion, cobalt blue, bright yellow. Their legs are covered in patches of colour -- as are their mouths, and the deck! Strewn all about the yard are a set of watercolour-paint tubes, many of them chewed up. Great! What if they are poisonous? So I tell my son he has to wash the dogs, and he looks at me all doe-eyed from the couch. "But I'm sick!"

"I don't care. You left the paints out; therefore, it's your responsibility. I have to go back to work: I can't do it."

All the same, I help him get the dogs up there and get them started.

And today, I run around with a shovel, cleaning up some very interesting poos -- lovely versions in khaki and black.