Barry Simiana's Blog: Barry's Book Stuffs

 I'm sorry.

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Back when I was a kid, and yes it WAS many moons ago, Those two words were the most important ones to use to show regret over your actions that may have hurt another in some way. Those two words had gravitas and at least implied respect either for the act of penitence or the feelings of those hurt. They were not words used lightly, for to cheapen them was to rob them of their value, to make them mere lip service. When you said you were sorry, by hell you meant it.

Fast forward 2022.

Prolly earlier than that, and I may have written about this at some time previous, but after the past week, I feel it needs repeating.

Or perhaps,

Has "I'm sorry" become the politically correct polite use of the more volatile and deeply satisfying (in my book at least0 phrase "fuck you"?

Dealing with a freight agent, a month-long endeavour that - as yet - is still to bear fruit. Starting at the "service desk" a call centre in an off-shore nation that may at some point try to sell you electricity, phone service, pretend to be some government official out to scam you, whatever. Yes they have lost my parcel, something very dear to me. Yes, it was slightly miss-addressed (a missing 'o' in the suburb sent it to another suburb) but it was found and returned to the main depot and placed in unsorts.

Yes sir, we know exactly where it is. Yes sir, I'm sorry but it was miss addressed. Yes sir, I'm sorry you were not notified. Yes sir, sorry for the inconvenience but we will readdress it and it will be delivered asap.

Yes sir, I'm sorry but it is still in the awarehouse. Yes sir, I'm sorry that it was not followed up. How do you spell that? Yes sir, I'm sorry for the inconvenience etc etc.

Let me speak to your supervisor.

Yes sir, I will handle it personally. I'm sorry for the inconvenience.

No, I don't want to talk to you. You have been sorry on at least three different occasions and I'm no closer to my stuff than I was five weeks ago. Get me the supervisor. I don't care if you're sorry. Get me your supervisor. Look mate, I don't think you are sorry, I think you're ten thousand miles away and have no physical connection to the problems we face here in this country, with the help desk housed in another country. Put me in contact with the warehouse in my own country and I'll sort it out. I don't give a rats arse if you're sorry that you're not allowed to give out the warehouse's phone number, Either get me the warehouse or put me in contact with someone who can.

now dealing with someone at least on the same continent as me.

Oh yes, I've seen that.

So when will it be sorted. This is very important nd needs to be fixed.

I'm sorry, Covid, the war in Ukraine, lack of staff, new people., old people, why, the list of excuses is just endless. I'm sorry ...

7 weeks, two days and still no resolution in sight. Sigh.

Take wife to hospital. The usual suspects. Covid, war, influenza, laziness of the masses, staff shortages.

Doctor one, We do this, this and this and all will be well. Here, take my diet supplement and it will be wonderful. (lens flare glint off teeth)

Doctor two: No No No. If we do that you will surely die. No, this is the only course of action!!!

Doctors 1 & 2 are locums, which seems to stand for "junior doctor in training with no real idea of what they are doing", advising fairly serious procedures because that's what they learned in study hall last week, then skipping away coz they ain't gunna be doing the cutting and shutting so wiol have no connection tothe fallout of their bad advice.

Enter doctor three - the surgeon:

  I cannot perform this procedure as I have not had time to review your case and I will not be held responsible if something goes wrong.

So... you knew nothing about this case up until you walked into the operating theatre then?

Of course not. I am a surgeon, and a very very good one I might add. These diagnoses are wrong. we must do this, this and this before we can even think about attempting anything. And, I'm sorry to say, you're too fat. So in essence, the first diagnosis was correct. Except it wasn't, because he was a locum and I am a surgeon.

Or maybe this:

Yeah mate, I'm sorry. I know I said I'd get that done but you know, covid, the war in the Ukraine, lack of staff, sheer indifference to the plight of the customer. I'm sorry. I was gunna ring you to stop you driving 45 minutes to come pick up but, yeah, I couldn't find it so I just thought you'd not worry about it hey. Glares at me because I've just blown 1.5 hours of HIS life.

In each of these cases, you could tell without seeing it go down, that most of these were reading from some rehearsed script that HR has sent around under the title of Handling The Disgruntled Customer. Not Let's Solve The Customers Problems, just apologise over and over again with that tone that screams out that you don't really give a shit, the tone that changes each time I'm sorry is said until the recipient hears the words Fuck you instead of I'm sorry.

The phrase no longer has any of the meaning it had when i was growing up.There is now sorrow, no repentence, in fact no care at all. Instead, there is a 'get out of my face/off my phone/I just don't care mate attitude.

Look, I know that customer service is not the greatest arena to spend your life. Customers can be dead set bastards. Whoever created the line the customer is always right never worked in customer service and deserves a smack in the chops. Or if they did actually do the work, it was when people were human and carried on with respect, actually happy to have someone actually try be of assistance, not the entitled pieces of shit that inhabit many places, at ties just to maker some poor saps life difficult.

BUT - and this is big.

If you have stuffed up, admit it. If there is fault, explain it. Don't 'apologise' with a haughty tone, or a sneer or speak like you are reading a script. If you intend to apologise, using the words, I'm sorry, actually mean it. 

These are just a couple of things from today, the last 24 hours, but it goes on and on. These days, I'm sorry means fuck all, as well as fuck you. Kids apologising to their parents when caught out. In my day there'd be a flogging that had better be followed with a truly heartfelt apology or else. Now it's an offended "I'm sorry' a look of exasperation and a damn good chance the same poor behaviour will be repeated before the hour is up.

Bottom line: it's about respect, something we as a society seem downright lacking right now.

That is all.

For now.

 

NANOWRIMO is upon us again. I hadn't intended to enter this year, after last year's effort and considering the depths of depression that COVID-19 has instilled in so many and a lack of enthusiasm that has just pervaded life in general. About the most fun had in the past 12 months has been the wonderful stories that have been thrown about and vaunted as news, and in that fun-filled (though sometimes horror-filled) reading, I found some inspiration.

Regular news services have become almost robotic in their representation of current events. Various channels/networks/programs have become little more than shills for whatever political base they hold dear. I don't need t mention them, You all know who's whom in the "news" polls. They push the barrows they have been told to push, who to lionise, and who to ridicule.

They're Not Fun Anymore.

It's not much fun poking fun at a head on a stick spouting someone else's views by rote because they have been paid to. As society has been dumbed down by its reliance on screens of all sizes and type, it has become much like the futures foreseen by our literary forefathers. Anyone seen or read George Lucas's (yes, THAT George Lucas)THX-1138? Take a gander, it's a lot more topical now than it was way back in the seventies.

Oops, rant in progress. Bear with me a sec ...

Okay, It's gone.

Where was I?  Oh yeah, inspiration.

I have grown to love the conspiracy theorists. As writers, we have to sit down and plan our stories, make sure it all makes sense, that it at least seems believable with a little suspension of belief. It needs to be less strange than reality in order to be accepted by the readers when you are in fact trying to tell giant lies and pork pies to entertain.

But, become a conspiracy theorist ...

Straight away, fact-checking becomes optional, and even if checkable prolly only against another brother C.T (short for conspiracy theorist).

Truth doesn't get much of a look in, for as Oni Wan Kenobi once said in his ghostly form "Anything is true, from a certain point of view."

So a person links three "facts" follows a dubious line of enquiry, stitches together a fabric of tall tales, downright lies, and a little guesswork, and we now have a theory that holds water surprisingly well, if you don't examine it at all critically.

And I have fallen in love with some of these stories. Especially about COVID. For Christs sake, don;'t get me started on politics. I hates politics, but if you want a breeding ground for factless, dream-based storytelling, THAT's the place to go.

But no. That is for later. 

No, for now, I just sit, watch and read, occasionally wonder how some people get out of bed in the morning without hurting themselves, and wait for the next installment to be shipped to me via FB, IG,    I💓R and other paid-for advertising. 

This has my inspiration for 2021 NANOWRIMO. I've collected snippets of conspiracy theories and compressed them down to one or two (maybe three if I'm shy of reaching the word count) of my version of some great theories I've heard, either from the screens, or passed to me by people who believe and perpetuate them. The tentative title is 

INTO WUHAN 

but I hope to change it. Or not. Whatever. I'll post when I can, if I can be bothered or if it looks like it's coming together. If you have a pet theory that you think will be a great base for a story, drop me a line in the comments below.

Until then, keep reading, writing, and thinking. 'Specially the last one.

 ROOST

In no particular order ...

This is the fourth idea/story for the sequel to Touch of Evil. Roost was an idea that came along - as many ideas do - while driving along the highway at a faster than safe speed after way not enough sleep in an effort to be smewhere other than where I was at the particular moment. I love driving. Nothing clears the mind and lets the creative juices run free than hitting the highway for a few hours, radio/stereo blaring, and letting the mind wander. Ideas flow, thoughts gel, and a lot of the time new story forms in place and just needs to be recorded.

Enter the one problem.

I don't record to the microphone very well. Have tried it, know a lot of people who do it, but just can't get into the idea. Instead, I try to hold it for as long as I can and keep the bits that stick with me. Sometimes it works, sometimes it don't.

ROOST came about, as one of the characters explains, as a question posed to myself as I tooled along.

Who gets to name the rest stop areas along the highway?

Google "NSW highway rest areas" and you'll find a mind-boggling array of names, from the simple Maria River or Paddy's Rest to Devils Pulpit, Null and Come By Chance. Mt Buggery in Victoria would also have to be a must-see for those that like that sort of thing, as would Nowhere in Tasmania.

ROOST came to me whole (as whole as it is, anyway) fifteen odd years ago. I had nowhere t put it, got it mostly done, and got distracted by other bright shiny objects as I am wont to do. It languished, occasionally being picked at here and there while I moved through other projects, until now. It started life as a short story, looking at maybe 10K tops, but as it fell on the page, expanded to 25K and beyond. Now here I am trying to squeeze the juice out of it a shove it back into a 10K box, but it doesn't want to go.

And I have to admit, I still like it long. Considering one story in Touch 1 is 40K, I may just let it run its length tidy it up and jam it in. But it is messy right now, so working it up to see how it goes.

The premise is simple, a couple on a trip to save their marriage pullover in a rest stop to rest, but things - as always - are not as they seem. This story leans a little more out toward the horror range than the usual spec fic I aim for, but it's a fun read (if you know the whole oke like I do) and I hope it translates easily over the next few weeks. Looking at having the whole thing complete by September, but there's six weeks away up north in that time as well and not a lot gets done while up there in the middle of nowhere other than the fossicking and exploring. There's also a story and a poem - yes, a poem - gestating from the last trip two years ago, that will hopefully come together while we are there, but not for this collection. I'll try and focus on this one first.

Anyway, back into it. Chat later. Comments welcome somewhere down below.

16/03/2021 12:01 am.

 Yes, it's been a while, I know. Things have happened, things have changed. Sun comes up, sun goes down, hands on the clock keep goin' 'round ...

With so many projects going at once there came a time when FOCUS became an issue. Too many things on my mind: uni, books, short stories, kids, puppies, friends, and the loss of some of those. Trying to up my reading rate and expand my reading horizons. The wheels began to fall off the machine.

FOCUS.

Not  

but

That sort of focus.

What do I want out of the rest of my life?  To do what I want when I want to do it. No doubt this is a want of many, if not everybody who works for someone else, making them richer while accepting a less than stellar paycheque every week and getting nowhere.

So many people I have known personally in the last few years have taken that step, that leap of faith and just walked away from the steady pay and gone out of the comfort zone and started work for themselves. While some had a rocky start, for whatever reasons, all but one has boomed, and the one who didn't did not have that internal resolve, that iron faith that their decision was the best. They had a doubt, and the doubt was like a leak in a dam wall.

So, rather than spread myself across many disciplines and going forward at a glacial pace, I started to focus.

What did I want?

To write.

Was I good enough to do it?

From the reports from my university tutors and others, yes (still need to earn to type tho).

What is the main thing stopping me from taking this path?

Me.

I have dabbled in the TV and Film world, getting responses from those who have not followed through. Do I just delete that world entirely from mine? No, but I do put it on the backburner, and answer questions and talk to people when I need to, rather than make it my main focus.

Thanks to COVOD and the federal government, my degree is now financially out of my reach, so, as much as I liked it and learned from it, the degree is out(at least for now). Should situations change, then we'll see.

See, trimming some of the trees to make the forest a little more visible.

Stop worrying about the day job. After nearly forty years of doing that, I can almost run on autopilot. Some days I do. I have let go of the small minds and petty squabbles and instead think of my characters, my stories and making it all come together. I still do my work at a high standard, but when things go wrong, I do like everyone else and le someone else handle it.

All of a sudden I have a few more hours in the day and some brain time to work on what I want.

Next come the projects. What are achievable in the short term the medium term and the long term.

After the Flood, and that prequel Rain, have become a medium-term goal. That piece has just bloomed into a monster of immense proportions and requires a commitment of equal proportion. It's gunna take time. Cool.

Transported Legends has sort of lost favour. I still like the idea of legends from other lands taking root here but trying to find an original slant makes it time consuming and difficult, and time is not my friend.

Screenwriting has become a side project and will always continue to be so. My focus may move in that direction again, but stories are my main path right now. 

Segue to

Touch of Evil 2, or perhaps Another Touch of Evil.

Three stories so far, four more in various states of undress and by god I think I have a book coming together. More humour in this one, and at the time of this writing, not too much gore and horror. More the speculative style of the first volume where almost everything starts with a question "What if ...?" I think this is what I do well For now at least this is what I shall focus on. It's what I believe in so what they'll not?

On the reading news, here's a few I've finished recently.

He of the television show,interviewer of the stars. I find him funny as hell and he does it without really trying. Many of his guests comment on how easy it is to talk to him and spill their guts on his show. This book is a little serious, all memoir with some interesting flashbacks to parts of his life that I found at times disturbing but mostly interesting. His dedication to his pets is amazing. Nice read and outside my own reading comfort zone.

I, like so many others, just fell deep into the first book, Ready Player One. It was a breath of fresh air, lived right in my wheelhouse, touched all the pop culture points I identified with. I wish I had written it.

The next book, Armada, I was less in like with.

Then this sequel was announced and like so many others, I waited anxiously for its arrival. Maybe it's just jaded me, but man, I was a little disappointed. Where I blazed through RP1, RP2 I just read through it. It didn't have the sizzle, the pop hat I found with the first book. Where I couldn't put the first one down, his one I didn't mind if there were a few days between reads. It's a nice story, perhaps a good one, but the pop culture references feel forced this time like Cline felt he had to go bigger. The quiet commentary on the state of the world as it is consumed by technology cannot be lost here and it does not preach anything, but, yeah. Like, not love. Call it B+.

About 1/3 way through. typical Dean. Another dog with human capabilities. We'll see. 

Thanks for reading. watch this space.

Have a great day.

B

 Unit 1, third section was screenplay. Prolly my favourite section thus far. Been working with the form for about ten years, starting when I was trying to float the Touch of Evil/Tales from the Other Side TV show. It still raises it's head every now and again, but no one wants to put their money down. Still working on it, as well as series 2.

Forever the optimist.

Back to the unit.

We had to write a scene under 700 words, showing (not telling!!) personal conflict. The thing with screenplays vs novels/short stories, in a story you can do and say whatever you like. You can show characters internal monologues, tell of their thoughts and feelings, describe with as much detail as you like in anything that's a part of the story.

With screenplay, if you can't see it, you can't use it. No internal thoughts unless it's part of the shot. No describing what someone might be thinking. You need to show them doing it or saying it. an old screenwriter law is that if you have a gun on the table in act one, someone better be dead or at least shot by act three. Everything in screenplay is literal, its there in view, not guessed or hinted at.

(It's called foreshadowing, and done right its a mind blower. For a great example, the movie Knight Moves with Christophe Lambert is a great example of how everything is laid out before you in the first ten minutes of the film INCLUDING whodunnit, but until the end of the show, where its all laid out, you don't realise you know the answers.)

So, 700 words scene showing personal conflict in a manner that is uncomfortable. took several goes, especially to pare it down to wordcount and to take out extraneous description. Using a time from my own life mixed with conversations I've overheard (no writer forgets anything they hear) and a good dose of imagination, what follows is my response.

Comments, thoughts and prayers for my sanity always welcome.

MODERN DAY SHAKESPEARE 2

 

EXT. SURF CLUB BALCONY. NIGHT

 

Outside the club. No moon, tonnes of stars. The sound of the ocean from over the dunes. RAY and TINA stand apart, looking at each other. Muffled sounds of conversation and laughter, music from the jukebox filter through the half-closed door.

 

RAY

You’re leaving? When?

 

TINA

Friday. Maybe Saturday if the truck’s running late. He wouldn’t give me a time.

 

RAY

Fair enough. I suppose. But why?

 

TINA shrugs and leans her hip against the railing.

 

TINA.

Just time to go.

 

RAY stares at her as TINA folds her arms across the chest, beginning to build her defences. He shakes his head and sighs.

 

RAY

How many times, Tina?

 

TINA

How many times what?

 

RAY

(sarcastic smirk)

First it was MARK, and you had to go.

Then it was CARL, and you had to go.

(sarcastic laugh) Now its fucking MICHAEL

and you …

 

TINA

(stiffens)

It’s my life. I don’t have to answer to you.

 

RAY

(nods)

True. True enough. (Beat) But what happens when it all goes tits up again? What then?

    

TINA

(glares frost-daggers)

Won’t happen this time. I’ve grown up. Unlike some I know, I’ve matured.

 

RAY

(another smirk, sadder this time)

Have you? Have you really? We’ve played this game, you and me. You come back home, all tears and anguish.

              (mimics TINA)

“Poor me, poor me, bad choices, ripped off again.”

 

TINA pushes herself back off the railing, standing erect now, shoulders back, warrior stance. She looks gorgeous, and deadly.

 

RAY (CONT.)

Don’t get huffy with me. You run away, get fucked over, come running back. Who’s always there? Who listens to you, brings you back down, builds you back up, helps you get your self-respect back? (taps his chest). Me.

 

The door to the club pulls open and the sounds from inside get loud. A male patron back out the door.

 

BLOKE

(to someone inside)

Just going for a ciggie. Watch me beer for me, will ya?

 

He turns to let the door close and sees RAY and TINA staring each other down, not drunk enough to miss the vibe between them.

 

BLOKE (CONT.)

G’day guys. (hold up a cigarette pack, one already between his fingers), Just gunna to put another nail in the coffin. As you were.

 

He steps carefully between them and scurries away to the furthest end of the balcony, standing under a pandanus tree and lighting up. RAY flicks a glance at him, quickly puts his eyes back on TINA.

 

RAY

(quietly)

Don’t want to do this again, Tina.

 

 

TINA

Then don’t.

 

RAY

Really? Just like that?

 

TINA

(shrugs)

If it’s what you want.

 

RAY

(crosses his own arms)

What I want? You want know what I want? I want you to grow up and take a look at this abortion you call your life. I want you to stop running after these no-hopers, letting them use you, take your money and drop you in a taxi back to my door when they’re done. I want you to grow up.

 

TINA

(coldly)

You want to keep your voice down a bit?

 

RAY

What fucking for? Him?

              (points back at the smoker)

He doesn’t give a shit. He’s half off his face and probably wishing he’d finished his beer first.

 

Suddenly BLOKE is behind RAY, trying to squeeze past, looking embarrassed.

 

BLOKE

Sorry mate, yeah. Just going to get me beer. Ah …(slips past as RAY steps forward). Have a good… ah...Yup.

 

He pulls the door open and slips inside. RAY and TINA focus on one another again.

 

RAY.

The only one out here that gives a shit about this right now is me.

 

TINA drops her arms by her side and turns, stomping toward the stairs going down to the carpark. She stops and looks back, angry tears on her cheeks.

 

TINA

Fuck you then.

                                                        ************

Dramatic, I hope, with a touch of humour to break it up. Dean Koontz says the humour is a necessary part of telling a horrible story. Lightness shows the darkness to be darker. Something like that.

                                                

Anyway, thanks for reading.

Have a great day

Baz

Unit 1 and the second stanza was POETRY. Not my idea of fun. I can listen to poetry all day, I like how the words fall and the sounds create worlds to explore in sometimes brief moments of brilliance. And I've met and known some truly excellent poets who are legends only to a few. My friend Leisa, who writes all too little now, Rosemary, who crafted her work like a artist, building her stories and poems, Guy, who could hold a crowd spellbound with his poems for hours, Pip and his award winning poetry slams, marina and her love of haiku.

Just don't ask me to write it. 

But to be fair, I've met some "real" poets as well. The ones that people fawn over as though they were something special. One such man, who I won't name as he is passed and it is poor form to speak ill of the dead, who fed off the adoring crowds and regaled those gathered with the following:

POET: here's one that I wrote just for this ...

The dog

Sat on the mat

And licked its balls.

Poet: It took me several hours to write that, to simplify the sentences and structure to get to the essence of what was going on.

The dog

sat on the mat

And licked its balls.

POET: Can you imagine it? This little dog, just wandered in, it wasn't mine, I'd never seen it before. it came in, parked its arse on the Axminster and preceded to cleanse itself.

... and forty five minutes and another three retellings on the imagery of the bloody dog, licking its balls. 

I've learned that most poets that make it are pretentious ratbags, full of themselves and the substandard work that people who seem so intelligent and with it just cream their jeans over.

I mean ...

Fuck.

But Poetry was what we had paid the bucks to do and indeed it was poetry that we did. And it was hard, and I struggled but at that magical 3:00 am it all clicked into place and I couldn't stop. I seem to have become attached to the cinquain, Five lines in order: two syllable, four, then six then eight then back to two. You can stack 'em, stop at just one. Bloody brilliant. here's a few I handed in:

NIGHT SKY

At dusk

The moon does rise

Ghost light filtered on high

By clouds – as veils – hiding her face

Night falls.

 

REALITY

Looking

Tis not easy

So many points of view

Each one arguing with the others

No peace.

 

ONE

Hear this

All lives matter

We are all one planet

Get over your shit and share it

With all.

 

PUPPIES

My pups

Paddy and Mouse

Small fat furry bundles

Entertain me, bite me, love me

Cute too.

Okay, they're not world award winners but from a non-poetry writer, I liked them. Hated sonnets, 

Haiku:

I love haiku and have a couple of friends who are very good at it. I'm not

I find poetry

difficult to undertake

really not my thing.

Acrostic was fun, responses difficult but over all, a good time was had. also, some silliness

PBJ

poetry is not my jam, unless I'm under

the influence or just really tired

then my mind does wander

to verse and rhyme and times and

thoughts of things forgotten

but still in my grasp just barely

my understanding slippery

butterfingers trying to make it work.

But then it became time to be serious and hand in our presentations.

 POETRY WORKSHOP

Poem 1

THE DARKNESS IS A WUNNERFUL THING

 

The darkness is a wunnerful thin’

It goes away, comes back agin

And dark things dwell so deep within

the darkness,

it’s a wunnerful thin’.

 

The darkness? Oh I’m not afraid

I’m real  glad at the break o’ day

The shadows all just

go away

And in the light for now I’ll stay.

 

As ev’ning comes, the darkness grows

It hunts for me just like it knows

my thoughts, my fears,

I bet it shows.

As light fades, the darkness flows.

 

The darkness, and it’s back agin’

Those dark thin’s start to close on in

They whisper quietly, “How ya bin?’

Just like they’re famly, friends or kin

The Darkness

is a wunnerful thin’.

 

 It was decided for me that that one wouldn't c=make the grade. In my mind I was looking t maybe 50% if I was lucky, but confidence was not high, so I regrouped and tried again.

 

 Poem 1

AS ABOVE, SO BELOW

Midnight.

Ghost moon sails high

Clouds scud past, hide and seek

The light and shadows wax and wane

Like us.

 

Moonlight.

Chances come and go.

We pass, fleeting moments

Like the moon and the clouds. So close,

So far.

 

We dance.

Time stops, so near.

On to the next partner

You’re gone in a heartbeat. So quick,

Away.

 

We rest

Apart. I look

I see you, surrounded

Like the moon by the clouds. So far,

So close.

 

We’ll waltz,

Always circle

Around, never touching,

A dance. As above so below

Forever.

 

Poem 2

FINALE

Pen’s down on the table,

Outside’s looking good.

Everything’s all come up ace

Mission understood.

Done the best I can with this,

Over it a dozen times.

Now just time to hand it in,

Ecstatic that it rhymes.

 

 

Poem 3

In response to RAINING ON THE ROCK by John Williamson

SUNBURNT COUNTRY

Dry earth baked, cracked, wounded.

Riverbeds like terracotta

Red dirt hard, unyielding.

MacKellar’s sunburnt country,

Wide and brown indeed

Blackened in places by fire, scorched

But not dead. Never dead.

Beneath it all, life waits its turn,

When comes the rain.

Then we had to write a section explaining how and why. Turns out bullshit might actually make the world go 'round!!

POETRY WORKSHOP REFLECTION

 

I wrote initially three poems but on submission to workshop was advised I may have not filled the brief given. Though I knew I’d written strong poems, I caved into my insecurities and redid poem 1, attempting Episode 5/Exercise 2: Poetic form and the cinquain. Five stanzas of it.

I took liberties with spelling and punctuation, used repetitions to tie it together. The punctuation and capitalisation gave it breathing space that I hope adds a sense of drama. Bending lines into particular syllable requirements using closed and running on lines was a challenge and I went through five rewrites until I was happy with what I had.

I’m hoping the images presented work and give an Idea of where I was headed; planetary movements and movements of people mimicking each other; sometimes we’re in orbit with someone and no matter how much we want to be closer, what we get has to be enough.

Poem 2 was my bit of fun, and I related this back to – again – form in poetry: Acrostic form. Again, it didn’t start out that way but after the first four lines made the first word completely by accident, the challenge was on to continue, and yes, the final line made my day. Keeping the basic form, the rhymes came in a few short rewrites. The use of five, six and seven syllables I think is reasonably consistent and the sounding works on a vocal level.

Poem 3 is my Exercise 1 response to John Williamson’s RAINING ON THE ROCK. I hope there’s a sense of dry, bleak baked earth but in the end, hope. I hope it isa response. Creating a free verse response to another poet’s work was difficult. I don’t have the depth of knowledge or reading to be confident, but I did try Poe’s The Raven as a bright, sunny bluebird. Didn’t work. I hope this did.

Attempts at turning prose into poetry also proved difficult, though my version of IT by Stephen King en cinquain was a bit of fun. Not presentable though. Thanks to Group 3.

It was tough, but I ended up liking it a lot. The other classmembers were cool, the tutor fantastic. I learned so much and had a great time learning something new.

As always, comments and thoughts greatly appreciated.

Thanks for reading.

Baz

 

 About a million years ago, when the internet was young and I thought I knew what I was doing, I signed up to a site called Writers Cafe, where you could post stuff and get critique returned in a cafe style setting. Made some good friends there, read some amazing stuff from people all over the world. I posted frequently, adding copies of things I'd come up with. But one day I wrote straight to the site, no pre-writing work, from my brain, through my finders, into the keyboard and onto Writers Cafe. It was like a dream sequence, and it was perfect, got some great reviews and I thought it was wonderful. 

But while everything is available on the internet because someone somewhere saves it and it lives forever, back then a careless finger could lose it in the miasma of cyberspace forever. The owner/admin of the site was doing some maintenence on the site, touched something and ERASED THE WHOLE SITE.

Just like that. Gone.

Poof!

My story, which was only hours old and not yet saved to anything I owned or had access to, was gone. There was a search fix that hunted for stuff and some things were found, but not that one. Several people had stored it in their :"libraries" but after asking for help, no one came forward.

It was gone.

The lesson here is simple : BACK UP EVERYTHING AT LEAST TWICE.

For years this story has rattled in the box in my brain where all barely remembered things live. Once in a while a line or phrase that I knew came from it would drift across my consciousness and remind me I had unfinished business there, but I just couldn't. Partly inspired by thoughts of my mum and dad, now both gone, from stories they told me and just stitching a narrative at 2:30am one day, this little gem teased me but remained hidden for over a decade.

Until the first unit, first assessment of my BA. The brief was simple. 1200 word short story using the lessons learned in the four weeks preceding.

I struggled. I'm not used to writing to order or deadline, though deadline does make me work harder and faster. At 1:00am - 3:00am on the day it was due, the hours of the artist, the writer, where inspiration lives usually behind the self conscious, it came back. Not exactly as I remembered, but my memories weren't true. This was close, and in some ways, guided by my tutor, it was better.

I have this stored on at least three separate devices now, and I share it here now.

As always, comments, thoughts and wishes are always welcome. I give you

Sundown

The setting sun is warm on her face. Must be close to five, maybe later. She sits on her rocker, the one her daughter bought her for Mother’s Day. Not one of those things that rocks on curved wood that can cut a cat’s tail by accident if the cat isn’t bright enough to get out of the way. No, more a glider. Swings more than rocks, safe for everything but little kids’ fingers, and little kids can get their fingers into trouble anywhere.

Back and forth, like an old rope swing. A gently kick of her feet and the chair slides silently back and forth, like the feel of a boat on the river; gentle rocking, soothing, moving with the pulse of the planet. The scent of the saltwater on the breeze, the taste of salt on her lips. It would be easy to fall asleep here, just rocking and rocking, like a babe in a mother’s arms.

She leans back and listens to her world. From inside the house she hears crockery being moved, the rattle clack of plates being put down, the glister of cutlery being picked up together, being laid out. The smell of lamb roasting in the oven takes over from the sea smell; fat and garlic and lemon and onion, hot and sizzling, cooking low and slow.

“Please spirits of the universe,” she whispers quietly. “ In this crazy world we live in right now, if it all goes to hell, at least can we keep roast lamb on Sundays?”

“ You okay out there?”

She smiles. Maybe she said it louder than she thinks.

“ I am just wonderful, thank you,” she calls back “ You need some help in there?”

“ No, I’m good,” comes back the reply. “ Just basting the vegetables one last time. Should be good to go in a half hour. That okay?”

“ That,” she says with a lazy smile. “ Is perfect.”

She rocks a little harder, lets her mind wander, eyes closed, watching movies in her mind. Lazy days on the verandah, family, friends and neighbours. So different from today, when no one speaks to anyone. You don’t know the person next door anymore.

She sits in a half-doze, soaking up the sun. Best time of the year.

The sounds of the world overrun the sounds of dinner being readied. The buzz of a mower, maybe two, from behind the house. The Johnsons are selling. Everyday Mick comes over to mower the lawn, water it, pick up anything that destroys his picture of perfection. Sad to see it, hear it and even feel it. Like so many others, the Johnsons never asked for a recession, hadn’t planned for it and hadn’t insured against it. Selling‘s the only way to survive.

They aren’t the only ones. If rumours are true, and she firmly believes they are, there’s a dozen more up for sale, just like the Johnsons. And none are selling. Money’s tight, banks aren’t lending because interest rates are so low, and the world seems buried under a blanket of unease, maybe a little fear.

The shattering sound of glass hitting hardwood makes her jump and realise she’s almost nodded off. The chair is almost still, her breathing calm and steady.

“ You okay in there?” she calls. “ You need help.?”

“ I got it, I got it. Only a jar with the lid loose. No damage done, just … messy.”

“ Wasn’t my mint sauce, was it?”

“ No.”

The sound of a tap running, some muffled cursing - what might be something about bloody mint sauce - something being scraped and wiped.

She relaxes, settles back into the chair. So long as the mint sauce is safe.

Her mind wanders and she falls into a memory. When they came here and bought the house with not enough money, both working to keep the roof over their heads. There was an old rocker then - the cat mangler type - she bought from a thrift shop. It made its home on the verandah, in the sun. She remembers the good days spent here after Kaley was born, rocking her, feeding her, feeling her warmth and her weight; the wriggling little fart monster that giggled and gurgled and sometimes threw up because she was a little guts and wouldn’t stop feeding until she’d had too much. The smell of baby powder and roses mixed with the smell of the river.

Times were better then. The stress was off. She stayed home with the baby and he went out working in a better job. Less stress, more money. He’d come home and stand on the verandah, one foot on the low step, the other on the top, leaning his elbow against the rail. She could see him there now; a shadow in the sun with that old-fashioned haircut that suited him so well, wearing his work shirt with the top buttons undone. His right arm, sunburned from hanging out the car window while he drove around, laugh-lines around his eyes, because he was getting older and because he just liked to laugh. He made baby noises to Kaley and tickled her crazy while they talk about the day, the weather, the neighbours and she looks him, laughs with him and secretly stares at the way his pants fit his rear end. Some of the other wives liked to look now and again as well.

Some days they danced on the verandah, tipsy from vodka coloured with orange juice, enjoying a moment. Once, they stumbled and tripped and he fell off the step onto the railing. It broke and he fell into the roses and they laughed and they cried a little but they laughed more.

Sitting here, eyes closed, she feels the light fading, and his shadow fades with it. The warmth slips away, the breeze grows cool. Goosebumps chase up her arms, but she isn’t cold. Not yet. There’s time yet.

“ Five minutes.”

She pops awake. She’s dozed, at least a couple of minutes. Footsteps on the hardwood floor coming closer. She opens her eyes to darkness and shivers in the breeze.

The screen door opens and a younger version of herself comes out, hair cut short, her dress modern old fashioned, her feet bare, rubbing her arms.

“ Mama, why didn’t you call me?” Kaley says. “ You’ll freeze.”

Kaley comes to the front of the chair, pulls a small crocheted blanket off the backrest and tucks it around her mother’s shoulders.

“ Just sit there, okay?”

Kaley crouches and picks up the polished tree branch that has been her mother’s eyes for as long as she can remember. She presses the smooth worn handle into her mother’s thin hands, places the rubber ball tip on the floorboard. She places her own hands under her mother’s elbows.

“ You ready?”

Together they stand, and for no other reason than they can, they hug. Kaley takes her mother’s arm and guides her to the door, helps her in and pulls the screen door shut behind.

“ Mama,” she says as the inner door closes. “ I got bad news about the sauce.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Thanks for reading.

Enjoy your day.

Baz

 

So, as reported elsewhere here I started a BA in Creative writing. At 58. With  full time job I dislike and four children and a psychotic wife.

No. I am not insane.

Well, that's debatable at this point and has been for years.

But I digress...

First unit was cleverly entitled "Creative Writing" and me, being Mr Clever Clogs, thought that it was going to be a doddle, and for them most par Unit one was easy, not too much out of my sandbox with short story and screenplay. The middle session was a touch more tricky wit Poetry, but after a lot of complaining and bitching on my part I got through it reasonably well and scored nicely. 

Over all unit score about 78%.

Welcome to unit 2.

First on the list, Ethics and Integrity in Writing.

Ouch.

Worse they expected an essay.

Now, it may seem odd, or even impossible to understand but for all of those 58 years, a large amount of them in some learning institution or other, but I have managed to avoid essays for all of 'em. Never written one, don't think I've read one I know them in theory only and only just passingly.

Write  1000 word essay on ethics and representation on a poet(?!?) and a part of his life. A hint quietly added was that if you get to 1000 words, go for an extra 100 coz you get 10% leeway and more is always betterer. I got there, got 1092 but it was hard to stretch my outline of "This bloke's a whiney spoiled dickhead, and so are the bitches he's writing about" to a thousand words.

With References!!!

Be buggered, but I did it. 73%. And I learned something of ethical responsibility.

Next is Interview and Observation with Ethics as a backdrop. After a month of absolute 2020 shit, I get it in a week late. Hoping for the best.

One thing they are very strict about is plagiarism and not only ripping off someone else, but ripping yourself off and claiming it a new work. considering the back catalogue and unpublished work I have stored away, its difficult to avoid repeating yourself.

But now, 17 weeks after starting I reckon enough water has gone under the bridge that I'm dropping some of my assignments here for the world - all 11 of you - to see. One or two at a time, just to prolong the torture.

Comments, guidance or input always welcome. Enjoy your day. Have fun, Have a read.

Baz 

First unit - Write a short story.

BOB

Bob woke up to the sound of fists pounding on the thin front door. Who ever it was was insistent, at the very least. Three solid knocks

Boom boom boom.

Authoritarian. Attention seeking. Police knocks.

Once that thought was borne in his mind the brain his teachers had called gifted and creative took over.

What had he done? Who had he seen? What did he do?

The product of a good, old fashioned Catholic upbringing, guilt was the first thing Bob’s mind ran to in a crisis.

Boom boom boom.

If he could have jumped from a reclining position with a pizza box balanced on his chest (ably assisted by some melted mozzarella that glued it to his shirt for safety) he would have. Instead, Bob struggled to pull the box free, tried to swing his legs up and over the comfortable little body groove he’d worn into the faux leather and ended up rolling down onto the floor amid chewed pizza crusts and empty cans of cola. Thankfully he didn’t smoke, because a face full of stale cigarette butts that would have surely been lying on the nylon carpet would have made him choke up the pizza he was struggling to hold down.

Funny, he thought as he pushed himself to his knees, leaning on the crap covered TV table to hoist himself up, I don’t feel as bad as I thought I would.

Boom boom bloody boom.

Whoever it was out there knocking splinters out of his door would be through it in a minute, saving him the walk to open it, but that would probably render his rental bond null when it came time to move house, and on the fixed income he was living under, every cent was going to help.

When the cops came knocking it was time to go.

Bob stagger waddled to the door, kicking some paper out of the way, reached out to grab the doorknob, but stopped just shy of touching the metal.

There wasn’t one noisy bugger out there, he thought as he heard muffled voices on the other side of the door. There’s two noisy buggers.

It wasthe cops.

“ Who is it?” he called just loud enough to be heard, trying to make it seem he was still lounging on the couch.

“ Open the bloody door you idiot,” a thin voice like stretched piano wire said. “ We got things to do, eh.”

Didn’t sound like cops, but they could have been play acting to get him to drop his guard, despite the fact he really couldn’t think of anything he’d done wrong recently.

“ Open the door, Robert,” the other voice said, this one deeper, more monotone and even less police like.

Right then, Bob wished he’d gotten into a higher-class apartment, one  with those little spyholes on the door to lessen the risks of opening the door to problems and considering at least one of them knew his first name, problems was probably going to be the least of his problems.

“ Yeah,” he said, trying to keep it casual while his brain burned with scenarios and his heartrate started to race.

“ Yeah, Rob’s not here right at the minute. He’s …”

Bob tried to get his mind to calm itself and think of something clever, but it wasn’t having any of that. His mind was running unfettered through fields of speculation and about to open the gate on the horror movie paddock, where all sorts of bad stuff fed on the pastures of his insecurity and low self-worth.

“ He’s not here.”

More muttering from outside the door, but at least the pounding had stopped. Bob tried to pick up the thrust and rind of the conversation, but it eluded him.

“ Are you sure he’s not in there?” the thin voice asked, squeaking up another half tone on the sharp scale.

“ That’s you, isn’t it, Robert,” the other voice said, as flat as a week old open can of lemonade.

“ No,” Bob squeaked.

“ I reckon it’s him,” the thin voice said quietly.

“ Course it’s bloody him, you nong,” the other voice said. “ Open the door, Robert.”

The low voice dropped a notch on the volume knob.

“ We’re not the cops.”

Bob’s knees sagged in relief. Not the cops. He felt So Much Better. In the back of his mind he knew it was illegal to pretend you were a policeman, so it stood to reason they couldn’t pretend they were people either. He thought it was called entrapment or something.

Confident he wasn’t going to get his collar felt,  and glad he was wearing tee shirt because they had no collars to feel, Bob opened the door, saw the two outside and immediately tried to close it again.

But the door wouldn’t close.

He pushed, he shoved. The thin door creaked, and the timber cracked with tension, but the door wasn’t closing any time soon.

“ You know that hurts, hey?” the thin voice said, a touch of anger tuning it up a little.

Bob looked down and saw a red leg ending in a cloven hoof sticking through the small gap between the door frame and the door.

“ You wanna open the door now, Bob?” the thin voice said.

“ Not really, no,” Bob replied, but he opened it anyway.

Outside stood a guy in a devil’s costume, half man, half goat. Little horns on his head, carrying  a pitchfork. There was even a tail with a little-heart shaped barb at the end. The other guy was tall, clad in a cloak that touched the ground. He must have had some kind of mask under the hood because Bob couldn’t see his face.

“ I thought Halloween was in October or November,” Bob said as he stepped back.

“ Sort of crosses between both,” the tall one said, the voice dramatic in its flatness.

“ You collecting for some sort of charity then?”

Both of them sighed, a mutual annoyed sigh that made it seem that they’d played this game before, knew the rules and knew they were being bent.

“ In a way, yes,” the tall one said. “ In case you haven’t noticed, I am Deaf …”

He touched himself on what might have been his chest with a finger that looked especially boney and sun deprived.

“ … and this,” he said, now pointing at his mate, “ This is my companion and sometime partner, The Divil.”

Bob nodded. He knew this one.

“ Deaf and Dumb society then. Look, I’m a little short this week. Could you come back next week when the sparrow farts. When I get me cheque from the government?”

The pair of character actors looked at each other, confused.

“ Pardon?” the tall one, aka Deaf said.

“ You’re Deaf, and he’s not too bright. “ Bob said. He stopped and thought for a second. “ But he can talk? Hmmm.”

“ No, no,” the tall one said, waving his hands nix-like. “ Not deaf. Deaf. You know? Reaper of souls, lord of the underworld?”

The tall one nodded. Bob nodded back. Neurolinguistic programming at its most average.

“ And you’re …”

Bob turned to the other one and waved his finger in the red one’s general direction.

“ Divil. Yeah. That’s me,” the Divil said, his voice squealing with pride. “ Some call me Satan the real Lord of the Underworld.”

He leaned forward and nudged the door away from his foot.

“ You’re not dyslexic are ya? I’ll belt ya if ya call me Santa.”

Bob crossed his arms over his chest, mushing the hardening cheese deeper into his shirt, feeling its cool greasiness against his skin. He had this now. He knew their game.

Walk-up telemarketers.

“ Well, yeah, thanks for the show guys, but I’m kinda broke and I got class in a  few hours and I got to wash my hair so like I better let youse go, hey.”

The little red cloven hooved foot quickly blocked the door before Bob could close it. This time a crimson hand with impossibly long sharp nails joined it further up the door.

“ He ain’t getting it.”

The door was shoved open and Bob fell back onto his corpulent backside.

“ Right stupid. He …”

The one who called himself The Divil pointed at his tall mate.

“ He is Death. He collects the souls of the departed and judges them for transportation to whatever hereafter they have earned.”

He pointed to his own well furred chest.

“ I am The Divil. You know what I do for a living, hey?”

A fuzzy little notion started to worm its way from Bob’s ears to his brain, pushing aside bits of grey matter that didn’t seem connected to much. It made a nest in his cortex and whispered quietly. Bob’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

The Divil turned to Deaf/Death.

“ I think the penny’s dropped.”

“ ‘Bout bloody time,” Deaf/Death mumbled.

Bob twisted his gaze from one to the other. The notion wriggled a bit harder in his brain.

“ So,” Bob said, “ If you’re who you say you are, that would mean that I‘m dead?”

“ He’s got it,” The Divil said, his thin voice tight with pleasure.

“ ‘Bout bloody time,” Deaf/Death said again. “ Can we go now? I got places to go, people to reap.”

“ But …but,” Bob said as Deaf/Death leaned over had held out a hand to help him up. “ I’m not dead.”

Deaf/Death yanked Bob to his feet.

“ Well, if you weren’t you are now, coz I touched you so … y’know. Can we go now? Please?”

Bob turned to run back into the flat, took a step and stopped. He looked at the lump on the lounge and recognised his own body lying face down in a cold pool of vomit and half chewed pizza slowly macerating in unfizzy cola. He felt a clawed hand rest on his shoulder.

“ Come on dopey. You wanted to move soon anyway.”

Bob allowed himself to be turned and gently pushed past Deaf/Death out the door, The Divil behind with his claws still on Bob’s shoulders, in case he tried to bolt.

“ Didn’t want to move this week,” Bob sulked.

“ It’s all good, mate. We got a great Dungeons and Dragons game going on down there.”

“ Really?” Bob said, his mood lightening ever so slightly.

“ Yeah, with real dragons, hey!”

Deaf/Death shook his head as he closed the door.

“ This is why I prefer to work alone.”

 Ende

 

 I met Kylie 30 odd years ago. More than half my lifetime ago. We lived in the same block of units. We smiled , we nodded, we  talked, we became friends. I noticed her as she walked past m door, kinda tall, kinda skinny, waking tall, long steps, purposeful steps. She smiled what I came to call her awesome smile a hell of a lot. That smile could light a sunless day and her eyes just glowed. She, and the others we hung out with became my friends. We talked a lot, and to steal a line from Lewis Carroll, we spoke of many things, well into the night and sometimes until morning. We were friends. I captured on film Kylie killing a crocodile by shoving a broomstick up its arse and riding it like a hobby horse. Thankfully it was stuffed, at least it was when she was through with it. In my art-photography phase I captured her smile and her eyes - that amazing face - with lowered sunglasses and a chuppa chup. Somewhere else there's a picture of her flashing her bra at her 21st birthday. There's a photo of Tori at about a year with my goddaughter at three is one of my favourites. There's photos of all of us at Leisa's birthday. There's a lot of photos.
Kylie invented words that are still in use today by a few people in the know. Had they been used in a bigger city with more people in the mix they'd be international, chief among them, the eternally funny wuss-head. No-one topped that. I still use it. 

There's, I don't know, a joke (?) about the three constants of life. Everyone knows it, but no-one can remember the third one. I'll tell you now that there's really only one constant. 

Change. 

Things change, people change. We change our minds, our clothes, our partners. As we grow we change or else we risk becoming boring, sallow versions of ourselves, to save ourselves. We change for all sorts of reasons, some real, some imagined, some important, some not so. But we change because its in our DNA. 

And we all did change. People moved, altered their lives, uprooted one life and settled into another. People are not stationary beings. There's a saying that'll come up later. Kylie and I lost contact. She had a new life and was determined to live it on her terms. I heard stories through the grapevine of mutual contacts, saw her a couple of times at various venues, the last time with her new baby girl before she moved to Queensland, then quiet again for a couple of years, but she stayed in my thoughts, mostly her smile, that face, and how I missed seeing it on a regular basis. Her voice, starting quietly, growing louder as she got more excited or bursting out laughing until she started to snort uncontrollably to the point of hiccups. Only happened once or twice but it was a memory that refused to go away.

Then comes Facebook. There's a lot of bad things about social media, Facebook in particular, but - as I think it was originally intended before the money got in the way - was a way to reconnect with friends, to find those that you'd lost. And we did connect and began again, barely missing a beat from where we'd left off,. I visited a couple of times on the way through to concerts in Brisbane, we chatted, discussed our lives a little more stilted because I'm not a great text typer and lets face it, we were all just busy going through our lives.

I got a call, maybe fourteen months ago. I knew the vice, but it was different. A little sadness in it, but I knew who it was. The call caught me by surprise and again, we spoke of many things. Conversations, more frequent, everyday, some lasting hours gain until midnight toward the new dawn. She loved the dawn, sunrise, the beginning of the day. Kylie would goon her morning walk and share pictures of the sunrise, even if it was raining. She was growing a new philosophy, had become interested in new things and was investigating new ideas in faith, metaphysics, spirituality. What it was to be human and approaching your fiftieth birthday. We talked of things light and dark, and we revealed to each other some of the monsters that hid deep in out subconscious, boxed and bottled and safe.

Kylie also found an affinity for the moon, for the more subtle light and its effects on the world, on her thoughts. She read her cards, pondered the infinite and told me her thoughts. So I visited and again, was struck by the change. The shortish black hair was replaced by these long grey tresses that fell past the middle of her back and she was relishing the change, refusing to deny the passage of time, revelling in it. as she called herself - the little hippy chick. It suited her. But the face, the smile, they eyes, they never changed. Bright as a button, sharp as a tack, her voice now carrying a little rasp from cigarettes and nights of fun with beer and friends. 

And we talked all the more. We chatted and made up silly characters in cyberspace and by phone, in person when we could. The smile exploded when Olsen was born and you never saw a prouder G'ma in all your life. There was a whole lot of happy. But underneath ...

Today I'm here, and I have to admit that I miss her, miss her voice, her smile. I miss knowing the world is bright because Kylie's in it. She made the world brighter just by being there. Look at what she did for a job. Dean Koontz wrote in his Odd Thomas series that the greatest thing humans can aspire to is a life of service, of helping others whenever the opportunity presents itself. Through her work Kylie helped people less fortunate find their way through the mind numbing miasma that is the governments idea of social security. Try to find a way through that rabbit warren without a guide. Kylie carried the candle for hundreds, thousands of people. She wanted to help and she did the best she could to make peoples lives better.

I don't know what happen after this life. Personally I believe there must be something more.  cannot believe we go through this life to just ... end. A physics lesson. It's scientific fact that you cannot destroy energy. You end up with heat, light and more energy. Kylie could warm you with her smile, light the world as she passed though it and her energy could power a small city. Maybe that strength and spirit I've admired for so long has - as some faiths state - been freed to go and roam out in the universe. I might be wrong, but I thought I saw a new star just below the southern cross, certainly one I hadn't noticed before Maybe?

There are cultures that believe that no-one has truly gone from this world until the last that remembers them is forgotten. It's a concept that's become a part of my personal belief system. Tell your children, share your stories and memories of Cyclone Kylie and make them legends that become passed down, told through the ages. She lives forever in our hearts and memories.

And there's another thing. An old Russian saying.

Men are not mountains. Mountains are stone, they are fixed, immobile and can never meet. People are not made of stone. People can move, they part, they come together again. Men people will always meet.  So somehow, somewhere, though I miss her so much now, I'm sure I will again meet my beautiful friend.

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Yes, the title is true. Here at the near end of my 5th decade, I've enrolled and gotten through two units of my first course in a Bachelor of Arts, Creative Writing. It is my 4th attempt at a formal qualification, having only completed one of the previous 3. So far, so good. Enjoying it and looking forward to the next phase. 
First course was short stories. Okay, that was easy ish. Shorts are where I - and prolly most every writer - started to hone the craft. Tricky part was writing to a theme, an idea set. The wordcount (1200) was a doddle, sorta. As I've left short fiction behind I've become very loquacious in my writing, but being forced to pare it down was a great reminder and an excellent exercise, working the editing muscles again for a better story.[image error]              [image error]              [image error]
This current section is my kryptonite, my bane. POETRY. I like poetry. I love hearing it, having the author or a person who loves to read it. I close my eyes and just let the words roll me away. I can feel the beat, the metre, the 'tic' as Paul used to call it. But writing it??
 Not my favourite thing. 
But I don't think I've done too bad. We're workshopping the stuff we have to get ready for assessments. See where it goes from there.
Coming up next os writing for performance. My wheelhouse. Screenwriting/script writing. It's where I've spent a lot of my recent writing life, to the detriment of my other writing commitments. but it will be easy I think. we shall see.
Going back to study after a very long time has shown me how much I've aged. [image error]I sit here on the East Coast of Australia, studying in an online University environment in Western Australia. [image error]
This is prolly the furthest two points apart on this entire continent. And I have to admit, the online situation is kind of odd to deal with. 
I joined a week before the course started. No idea what I was doing, where I was supposed to be or how to find shit out. Despite a dozen emails from OUA offering help, and asking the tutor how I go about things, It was pretty much a trial and error clicking of links until I found out what was what. \Yes, there were lots of errors. wrong postings on wrong discussion boards, being 57 in a world populated by 20-35 year olds (some of whom really need to lighten the fuck up). I learned that essays were no longer a thing, at least in the Arts world. Now we have Reflections, but by heck they look just like essays to me. Old mate told me many years ago that no-one truly reads essays, they just check your references. It was posited that you could write utter crap but if your references were good, you'd pass.The colliary to this was tat if you didn't quote stuff, you wouldn't have to reference.
I had to reference.
I didn't like it.
At 57 I'm a slightly old fashioned bloke who says what he thinks in the language he (I'm) comfortable with. In my normal life I speak sawmiller/mechanic/quarryman/engineer-speak, punctuated with lots of swearing and guffaws and lots of laughs.while the course notes read that some "language" is allowable in your work, you don't speak like that in discussion groups.
Oops.
Turns out you don't argue with tutors either. You don;t write stuff the same way you say it. You don't abbreviate words, you don't have too much fun. In effect, it's  all quite serious.
Sorry, gave up that shit long ago.
Yes, its serious, I get that, but its supposed to be fun as well. I have a distinctive "voice"or so I'm told. I speak bushy. I can and sometimes do speak officialdom, but usually when I'm about to rip strips off someone. If I start to use long words and a serious tone, who ever is listening is in deep shit. And all that translates to email and discussion boards real well.
But they don't like it.
For the third time, oops.
My mark for the first unit of Short stories I got 80%. My mark was cut because of my "Reflection". Not serious enough, too wordy. I dig that. A little explanation on that before the actual assessment would have been nice but 80% is okay. Once the course is done in about 5 weeks I'll post some of the stuff I created. One benefit ( a huge one) was finding a story in my head that I'd lost a decade ago. It was a story I created on the old Writers Cafe site and never really downloaded, intending on doing it One Day, but the sites owner "accidently" deleted the whole site one day and it was ... gone. I had it near perfect.
Gone.
But now, being forced to think in ways I haven't had to in years, I think I've got it back.It's not exactly the same. while I don't remember the exact story as I'd written it, I knew each time I'd tried to recover it that I didn't have it quite right. This time its close, in a couple of cases, its better. \
Yes, I will share Real Soon.
As I said, poetry is my bugbear. Until week 3. Then it became fun. I learned more about poetry in a week than I had in decades, despite having some wonderful poets on my life over the years. Week four was right back to difficult again though.
Take it as it comes. Screenwriting soon. More fun.
Touch TV is still floating in limbo, thanks to COVID-19. Still knocking scripts and stories together until everything gets back to whatever normal will look like and we can move forward. Thanks to this course it's got me thinking in new ways. It's also got me back into After the Flood and it's accompanying short story RAIN.  hopefully we can get that beast caged and done soon. It's a big piece.
And on Touch TV, sort of peripherally at least, I saw then new Paul Hogan thing, where he's a washed up has been but everyone wants him to be Mick Dundee again. He just wants to be a bloke. I thought the idea was a good one, but the reality is yeah, despite the cameos, pop culture references and some flashbacks, not very interesting at all. But' he'd be great in the episode MOHD. There's a rough draft of it on here somewhere. Se what you think. [image error]
Okay, it's 1:00am on the east coast, 11:00pm on the west. time for bed. Have a great week. Talk soon.
Baz