Swallows in the Eaves
"Do you know why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories." - J.M. Barrie - Peter Pan (1904)
Thursday, 11 December 2014
I've Moved!...
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Friday, 14 November 2014
The Darling Bitch
I do not fight against men, but against the system that is sexist.
~ Elfriede Jelinek (Nobel Prize in Literature in 2004)
I answered the phone at work the other day and a fellow gave
me his name and the company he was calling from. I asked how I could assist him. And he said: “What I’m calling about darl, is
– “ I cut him off there and asked: “Did you just call me darl?” He said: “Yes.” So I hung up on him.
He called back within seconds and immediately said: “Look,
if you don’t want to be called “darl” you just have to – “ I hung up again.
He called back again within seconds and said one word: “Bitch”.
I should preface this by saying that I knew this was a
marketing call. I always try to be
polite to marketers (they’re only doing their job) unless they get me on a bad
day at which time I tell them the owner of the company, aka The Chosen One, is
currently in conference with Satan. I
must also add the waiver that I do have clients who call me “Love”, usually
older gentlemen who think I’m the slightly-smarter-than-average-secretary, and
I have no problem with this because I recognise the motivation is pure and
their choice of language generational.
But lately I've been thinking about the fact that for a lot
of men, in professional situations, I am either “Darl” or “Bitch”. I don’t know if it’s specific to the industry
I work in or not, but I do get called “Darl” or “Love” a lot. Here’s the thing – whether I’m standing in
front of you or on the telephone with you, I always seem to remember your
name. Miraculous, isn't it? And in a
group situation, even when there are more than two of you, I still remember
your names. If I find myself in a
situation where your name escapes me, I revert to “Sir”, because that is the
etiquette, isn't it? You seem to
remember the names of all the men in the room, but still I am, always and
somehow, “Darl”.
“Darl” might do your laundry, get you coffee, pick up your dry-cleaning,
or give you a toothless blow-job in a back alley for $50, but she doesn't pay
your invoices, or remedy your contract issues, or carry out the logistical and administrative
requirements necessary for keeping multiple construction sites up and running. And confiding in me that your secretary is a bitch
tells me a whole lot more about you than it does about her.
And you know when it is I segue from “Darl”
to “Bitch”? The moment I insist on being
spoken to the same way you would speak to a man calling to hire a chemical
toilet. The second I insist on
maintaining professionalism when you want to reduce me to a vagina, I become
the “bitch” without a sense of humour. I
can’t fucking win: if I’m friendly I’m a flirt and if I’m firm I’m on my period
(oh yes, that’s been said to me too).
So here's the deal: when you
call me “Darl” or "Love" I promise to turn into the nail-filing,
gum-snapping, breast-enhanced, fake-tanned, stiletto-wearing,
high-school-drop-out you assume I am.
Don't be surprised when your phone
calls don't get returned, your invoices get misplaced, your messages shredded
and your urgent business shuffled to the bottom of the pile I plan to get to in
2016. Just because I don't carry my brains around in a sack between my
legs, don't assume my IQ is no bigger than your shoe-size, love. "Darl"
is a feminist issue.
Oh, and did I mention? – My eyes are up here....
Friday, 26 September 2014
Why the Terror Teat keeps 'em Sweet...
“So, in the interests of survival, they trained themselves to be agreeing machines instead of thinking machines. All their minds had to do was to discover what other people were thinking, and then they thought that, too.” - Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions
This week children attending the
two large Islamic schools in Perth, schools I visited regularly as a bookseller,
were advised not to wear their uniforms on public transport. The reason? – They were being emotionally and
physically intimidated by members of the public. Got to remember these kids probably also
carry backpacks – that’s some scary shit right there. They say they’re just carrying
homework and a cut lunch but we don’t want to take any chances.
During the same week, a man
entered an Islamic school in Sydney swinging a machete and asking if this was
indeed an Islamic school. Kids hid under
their desks, got all upset – bit alarmist really. I mean, this bloke was clearly terrified. He has a right to protect himself from little
Johnny.
And then there’s the young New
Zealander who was bailed up at traffic lights on the Gold Coast by a car full
of patriots who threatened to behead him.
In their defense, the young man had a beard. I’m sure Mr. Abbott is currently looking into
some facial hair legislation to ensure we are at least threatening the right
people. Because we just can’t have
bearded people with darker skin driving willy-nilly around the
neighbourhood. We have a right to feel
safe.
Mr. Abbott’s War on Terror. This is some of the best goddamn marketing I
have ever seen. The whole idea of
marketing a weak product (and you are far more likely to die of Ebola right now
than succumb to a terrorist wielding a cutlass) is to artificially inflate the
need this product will satisfy. Like the
War on Mould in my shower: clearly the mould will kill me so I must buy
ridiculously expensive industrial strength toxic products that burn my eyes and
irritate my skin unless I’m wearing a full body condom while applying them. Marketing convinces me that filling my house
with poison will keep me safe.
These poisons are a great
distraction too. There’s lots of tiny,
tiny print on the bottles, and websites you can visit that describe what Mould
does to your respiratory tract. I don’t
want any of that microscopic shit controlling my life, except all of a sudden
it is. And I lose track of the fact that
if I rescue one more cat I’m more likely to trip over one on the way to the
toilet in the middle of the night, crack my head open, and bleed to death
before morning. And the Mould will end
up living longer than I do.
It’s the same
principle as showing something shiny to a screaming baby.
So climate
change, the cost of education, the insidious threat to our personal freedoms,
pensioner poverty, homelessness, welfare hysteria, our violation of human rights,
the depersonalization of people who look and sound different to us, and every
other nasty little right wing agenda-laden product peddled to us during the
last 12 months will slip into the back of our consciousness because all of a
sudden there’s something much bigger to worry about. But Uncle Tony will protect us.
Fear. No matter how contradictory or boilerplate
the origin, fear remains the one great controller and captivator of both
individuals and entire populations. And
we’re all suckling now...
Monday, 23 June 2014
Aging Women Are Ugly...
“The emotional, sexual, and psychological stereotyping of females begins when the doctor says: "It's a girl.” - Shirley Chisholm
Driving
to work this morning listening to the radio I heard a disquieting discussion
between the breakfast hosts. I am the
last one to take things too seriously – anyone who knows me can attest to
that. But this really pissed me off.
It
was a discussion about hot actors who had “let themselves go”. I've always thought “hot” to be a distinctly
relative term, and don’t even get me started on the definition of letting
oneself go. However I’m not here to
argue semantics. My day started with
Kathleen Turner:
“I think she’s the spokesperson
now for Winnie Blue. And Bakewell pies.”
“Spokesperson!? I think she’s the taster for Bakewell pies”
“Have you seen her lately?”
“I think her last role she was
playing a bloke.” Then Carrie Fisher:
“I finally watched the original
Star Wars movies.”
“See what we mean?”
“Yep – saw her in the gold
bikini – I DO see what you mean...”
And
then Brenda Vacarro:
“Yeah, she’s another one.”
“What’s that film she was in
where she was hot?”
What
irritates the shit out of me is this expectation that women will remain preternaturally
attractive despite age and all of the accoutrements which naturally accompany
aging. The things which are forgiven if
one is male – weight gain, wrinkles, thinning skin, grey hair. To name but a few. That aging in women is seen as an ugly
failure, rather than a rite of passage indicative of a lifetime of experience
and enviable wisdom. All of the women
mentioned on the radio this morning, and in this Blog, are beautiful. And guess what? – Marlon never came up
once...
“Lines trace
her thought and radiate from the corners of her eyes as she smiles. You could
call the lines a network of 'serious lesions' or you could see that in a
precise calligraphy, thought has etched marks of concentration between her
brows, and drawn across her forehead the horizontal creases of surprise,
delight, compassion and good talk. A lifetime of kissing, of speaking and
weeping, shows expressively around a mouth scored like a leaf in motion. The
skin loosens on her face and throat, giving her features a setting of sensual
dignity; her features grow stronger as she does. She has looked around in her
life and it shows. When gray and white reflect in her hair, you could call it a
dirty secret or you could call it silver or moonlight. Her body fills into
itself, taking on gravity like a bather breasting water, growing generous with
the rest of her. The darkening under her eyes, the weight of her lids, their
minute cross-hatching, reveal that what she has been part of has left in her
its complexity and richness. She is darker, stronger, looser, tougher, sexier.
The maturing of a woman who has continued to grow is a beautiful thing to
behold.”
- - Naomi Wolf, The Beauty Myth: How Images of Beauty are
Used Against Women
Saturday, 7 June 2014
#6Degrees of Separation: The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton
I have been invited to participate in the 6 Degrees of Separation Meme, an original blog tour created by Emma Chapman and Annabel Smith. The rules are posted at the end
of this Blog. Before I get started I
just have to say...Kevin Bacon.
We start this month with The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton. Here is a picture of the lovely cover, which
is as far as I have ventured:
Emma has specified that one does not have to have read the
first book in the chain in order to participate and can I just say - thank fuck. With a ‘must read’ pile that has left the town
of Daunting and is now approaching the borders of Unachievable, I reserve the
right to bypass a tome the size of a house brick which someone dear to me
recently described as ‘like chewing cardboard’.
I have no doubt that Eleanor Catton is brilliant, and well-deserving of
the Booker. But I’m middle aged and no
longer read things simply because I've been told I ‘should’.
Having said that, I bloody love the idea of The
Luminaries. The synopsis, the
description of the intricacies of character and plot, the style – it should
read like a chic, Victorian-esque cat’s-cradle of intrigue and people you
forget aren't real. And I do love a
wordy book. Which brings me to the
first book in my chain...
Ah, Wilkie Collins. How many nights have we curled up together
like cats. The Woman in White (1859) is
a wordy book, a Victorian epic, a chilling and picaresque melodrama, and a bit
of a feminist shout-out. Wilkie had an
understanding of the Victorian Sisterhood.
It also deals with layers of reality and identity – and I love
that. He’s better than Charlie. You heard it here first. Which leads me to...
John Fowles. Talk about your layers of reality and I’m
talking The Magus (1965). Big, fat wordy
book about a narcissist having tea with a nihilist, psychological warfare
dressed as salvation and manipulation just another mask to wear to the party. Simply put.
The fact that a large part of the story involved Conchis’ story of his
experiences during Nazi occupation leads me to...
Isaac Bashevis Singer. Specifically, Shadows on the Hudson (English
translation 1998). Funny and
bitter. It’s dark, but again there are
layers of reality – that search for balance between the parameters of orthodoxy,
new prosperity and deep grief. What I
remember most about this book was being transported. Lifting my head from the page and thinking
‘Where am I?’ Of really forgetting these people were not real. Which brings me to...
Diary of a Young Girl (1947). I read an abridged version of Anne Frank’s diary as a child, then
read the unabridged later in life.
Singer never used the word ‘Holocaust’, but by the time I came to both
of these books I was emotionally raw to the word. This is also a book that deals with layers of
reality – Anne’s loneliness and isolation pressed hard against the struggle for
a sense of normality in extreme circumstances, where no one actually uses the
words ‘I’m terrified’. Which leads me
to...
We Need To Talk About Kevin (2003) by Lionel Shriver. And can I
just say ‘I’m terrified’. Again, loneliness and isolation
struggling to be understood. Fiction
dressed as non-fiction (i.e. a collection of letters) - again the layering of
reality. We have the story of multiple
people told through the reminiscences of one biased narrator/letter
writer. And that slow, torturous lifting
of the veil, the realization of what’s really going on, the deliberately
measured pace which is still too fast because as you’re reading you’re begging
not to be taken where you’re obviously being taken. Which brings me to the final book in my
chain...
The Lucifer Effect (2007) by Philip Zimbardo. I can’t believe
I've ended up with non-fiction. Is that allowed? Zimbardo
is best known for his controversial Stanford Prison Experiment, and the
subtitle of this book Understanding How
Good People Turn Evil sort of says it all.
We’re all born with a clean slate.
Sure, genetics may load the gun, but that begs the question – Who or
what pulls the trigger?
So there’s my chain.
Please check out the chains of Emma Chapman and Annabel Smith, and
everyone else who has taken part. And
have a go! – Here are the rules...
Thursday, 20 March 2014
The Writing Process Blog Hop
Emma Chapman has a lot to answer for. I stayed up well into the night reading How To Be A Good Wife regularly muttering “You won’t believe this!” to an increasingly
confused dog. She then gave me the worst
book hangover I've had in years – I couldn't think about anyone but Marta and
Hector for weeks. She screwed with my
life and I love her for it. I await her
second novel in much the same way I anticipate my hip replacement: “Oh God I
can’t wait! Oh God the recovery time...”
Emma has invited me to participate in this Writing Process
Blog Hop. You can read Emma’s responses
to the questions here. My answers are as
follows:
1. What am I working on?
Who can say balls?
I've got a couple in the air.
First, I am busy editing my second novel due for publication with Allen
& Unwin in February 2015. It has one
question at its heart: Does doing something monstrous make you a monster? I refrain from answering this question myself
as I refuse to judge my characters.
People do the best they can at any given time given their histories,
hurts, and limitations. And sometimes
they mistake denial for strength.
Secondly, I am busy with the WIP which has a deadline of
July 2014 (pause for maniacal laughter...my publisher isn't reading this,
right?) This one is scheduled for publication with Allen & Unwin February 2016. This is a book which asks the
question: What gives a person personhood? What defines us? Is it our ‘selves’
or our history, and what happens if our history is obliterated?
I have also had a sneak preview of the brand new German cover
of Creepy & Maud (Fremantle Press, 2012) from Königskinder Verlag (Carlsen) in Hamburg, due for release later this year.
2. How does my work differ from others of its
genre?
It’s not cautious in its representation of people and their
foibles and never underestimates the strength or intelligence of young
adults. Which is a nice way of saying I have
been known to make some gatekeepers uncomfortable. And
by uncomfortable I mean some place on the outskirts of anxious travelling
towards appalled. I suppose I never
forgot what it was like to be a young adult.
3. Why do I write what I do?
Because I have to.
Because little people have set up shop in my head and are constantly whispering
stories at me (I think there’s a medication for that...). Because the minute you condescend to young
adults, or try to moralize their experience, you lose them.
4. How does my writing process work?
Badly. I am
constantly distra...Oh look! – Something shiny!...
I don’t plan other than to hurriedly pause to scribble a
post-it if something pops into my head mid-sentence which I think might be useful
at a later point. I then lose the
post-its. My desk looks like the inside
of a skip bin colonized by cats. When I
sit down to write I set a word limit for myself which I really shouldn't do
because it annoys the shit out of me. I
don’t move on to a new sentence until the sentence I’m working on is completely
finished, scrutinized, torn apart and reconstructed. I must have two things: absolute quiet and
time. If the neighbour starts mowing the
lawn during the limited time I have to sit down and write it can make me
homicidal.
So that’s me. And now
I’d like to invite some other writers to share their processes:
Robert Schofield is the author of Heist (Allen & Unwin,
2013) and the upcoming sequel Marble Bar (Allen & Unwin, 2014). He makes me laugh and listens to me
whinge. Sometimes he says philosophical
stuff at me.
Vikki Wakefield is the award winning author of All I EverWanted (Text, 2011) and Friday Brown (Text, 2013). I love her books and I love the way her head
works.
Rebecca Raisin is the author of contemporary romance and
adventure. She is enjoying crazy success
with digital publications Christmas At The Gingerbread Café (Carina, 2013), Chocolate Dreams At TheGingerbread Café (Carina, 2014), The Heart of Bali (Escape, 2014), and Mexican Kimono, under the pseudonym Billie Jones (Really Blue Books, 2013).
If you’d like to take part in this Blog Hop, get in touch
with these wonderful people before they tag elsewhere!
Wednesday, 5 March 2014
Let's Talk About Sex, Baby...
“Nothing wears me out so, body and soul, as anger, fruitless anger...” - Josephine Butler, September 1869
Nothing gets people crankier than sex. They’re either not getting enough, or not
getting it good enough, or telling others who they can and can’t have sex
with. People pretend sex is a personal matter;
however those most coy about it seem to be the most interested in the sex lives
of others. Our holy men and our
politicians have a long, well-deserved reputation for being nosey bastards when
it comes to sex – entire legislative acts have been devoted to governing the
sex lives of others out of the bizarre belief that people women will
drag entire nations into moral disrepute and economic failure should they have sex
without permission and/or with someone other than a socially sanctioned partner. Honest discourse about sex has historically
been curtailed by the protestations of upper middle class white men whose
entire understanding of the female sex organs fell into two categories: our
clitorises either made us whores or made us hysterical. Both were moral and medical failures we could
neither challenge nor confront without being told our very indignation was supporting
evidence of us either being whores or
hysterical. What’s a girl to do?
There was a Sister in the 19th century who
refused to look at women’s bodies as crime scenes on legs, brazenly walking the
streets waiting to lure innocent men into disease ridden traps. Men had long been thought to be the innocent
victims of prostitution, the wounded prey of their own uncontrollable desire
coupled with a surplus of tarts on the loose.
My Sister shined there, getting behind the Moral Reform Union in 1884
which petitioned Parliament to criminalize the Johns as mercilessly as they did
the tarts. But it was her work against
the Contagious Diseases Acts (passed in 1864, 1866 and 1869) that leads me to
champion her as the Queen of Crank. I
speak of Josephine Butler, and she had sex on her mind.
The Contagious Diseases Acts were virulently anti-female and
although there were many mumbles, even some of the most courageous feminists of
the time were shy of attaching their names to this cause. Doing so would not only destroy their own
reputations, but that of their husbands also.
But Josephine got cranky and began demanding that her highfalutin feminine
sisters wake the fuck up and begin to recognize that all women were victimized
and abused by what only a few had to suffer.
(No vapours please).
So what were the Contagious Diseases Acts? Here’s the rub: they began as a way of
stamping out the rampant spread of STI’s in Army and Navy bases in Great
Britain. (That’s our fault, right?) The law stated that any woman even suspected
of being a prostitute in areas where the CDA was in force (mostly ports and
towns near army bases) could be forcibly removed from the street (“But I was
just going to buy apples!”) and taken to the nearest police station for a
non-consensual and invasive intimate medical examination. If she had an STI she was immediately committed
to a “Lock Hospital” (name says it all) until such a time as she was deemed “clean”. If she was not suffering an STI, she was
given a shilling and sent on her way (“You keep being a good girl now!”). Of course her hymen had been broken by the
examination, she was bleeding and no longer thinking about apples, but at least
the armed forces were safe.
It was working class women who bore the brunt of this, and my Cranky Sister Josephine exposed herself to unimaginable abuse as an upper class woman championing the rights of her lower class Sisters. Josephine Butler argued, quite rightly, that if there were any unclean women on the streets they didn't get that way all on their lonesome. There was a dick involved. So either arrest and punish both guilty parties or...neither. In 1886 and CDA was finally repealed. But it had been a 20 year battle for Josephine Butler. She formed the Ladies National Association for the Repeal of the Contagious Diseases Act in 1869 and her anger kept her going until she saw success. Not pity. Not moral indignation. Josephine was the ultimate Cranky Sister.
Josephine Butler died on December 30th 1906. She was 78. She outlived a husband she adored and predeceased sons who respected her. Josephine formed many of the strategies still now used in feminist discourse and called a spade a spade at a time when euphemism threatened to cleverly cloak some of the darkest crimes against women in history. Her triumph over the CDA has been overlooked, as has her anger.
And so I celebrate my Cranky Sister - Josephine Elizabeth Butler (nee Grey) - born 13th April 1828, died 30th December 1906.
If I were half the woman...
This post is written as part of the Women’s History Month Cranky Ladies of
History blog tour. If you would
like to read more about cranky ladies from the past, you might like to support
our Pozible campaign,
crowd-funding an anthology of short stories about Cranky Ladies of History from
all over the world.
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