[axe and rifle]

[It is one of those late, cold winter afternoons when solitude slips toward loneliness. The ferns drip in the glens and across the grim paddocks he can hear a cow lowing.

He is sharpening the axe.

There is a paved area beside the door, and here his breath forms small clouds in the chill air. All is silent; even the hens have housed themselves. The dying light seeps, luminous, over the dark green hillside to his right. The sun is retreating, an opalescent band barely visible above the hill. Still the sky is light; the house stands in a hollow. He has a good hour left.

He spots a movement on the gloomy hillside, in his small crook of valley, not one hundred meters away. He blinks, thinking it’s an apparition. But, no: he discerns legs flickering back and forth, resolute shoulders and a rifle. His axe is forgotten. The face is pinched, frowning, and -- despite the short hair -- not a man’s.

She is a shadow, a wraith green on darker green. Only the straight black line of the rifle is definite, discernible even in the hollow's dusk.]

News! I mean, News?

I'm afraid that when I saw this on theage.com on the weekend, I rolled my eyes so hard they hurt. In case you missed it, Melbourne, Australia, world, the war in Afghanistan is dubious!

Just so you don't have to look it up, the Pocket O defines dubious as ... wait for it ... "occasioning doubt". You can see the kind of hard-headed, tough-nut, devil-may-care, tell-it-straight journalism we have on our hands here. Look out, those of dubious actions.

Again: news? Haven't advertisers been trying to morph advertising into entertainment since the 1950s? Look at all the Pepsi product placement in Back the Future (not to mention the hilariously noted Lipton Iced Tea placements in 30 Rock). Look at the Will it Blend? videos.

"Whatever," says The Age. "Let's get some mileage outta Old Spice anyway." If they're right, it must be the slowest morph ever -- perhaps almost as slow as Sunday was as a news day.

Parity! Or: What to buy from America right now

Good ways to make the most of the unconscionably beefy AUD.

1. Buy a limited edition book (short stories, fiction, poetry, often illustrated and always beautifully produced) from Wallflower Press.
   
   
2. Purchase some new decks. Or new art. Call it what you will.
   
   
3. Subscribe to something good for once in your life. Consider: Lapham's Quarterly or The New Yorker.
   
   
4. Get educated. New Scientist, anyone?
   
   
5. Buck up, knuckle down, cut the corn, and book yourself in to see something fucking amazing on a whim. And at the whim of economics.

Questions? Comments? Other suggestions? Let's hear 'em.

The Gerund: in love and clown shoes

On Saturday, I awoke thinking of the Gerund.*

Some say the Gerund is a fabrication in English; they say it belongs to Latin. Perhaps this is true, but in my opinion, it's too good to let slip away.

In fact, I think I'm in love with the Gerund.

A Gerund is identical in form to an ing verb. It's the active present participle, if you will.

But let's not. Instead, let's focus our attention on the most commonly acknowledged Gerund form, the Gerund-and-possessive.

"I appreciate your bringing over the clown shoes."

As you can see, the ing verb here is bringing. The possessive plus Gerund is your bringing.

We could easily say, "I appreciate you bringing over the clown shoes."

But to the attentive ear -- the ear that adores subtletly and nuance, the ear that is attuned to social slights of which modern speakers are, dare I say it, rarely aware, let alone knowingly capable -- these are two very different statements.

One says: I appreciate your caring action.

The other says: I appreciate you. ...Oh, and that thing you did.

We could also say, "I appreciate that you brought over the clown shoes", but that puts the action in the past. It's been, it's gone, it's all said and done. In fact, people (okay, I) tend to use this construction most commonly when we plan to follow it with something like, "but they were purple, and clashed with my fight wig."

Don't believe me? Fine, scheister. Let's look at a more sensitive example, shall we?

"I appreciate your sympathy on the death of my cat."

In this sentence, the sympathy might as well be a commodity. You went out, boxed up your sympathy, and sent it over, along with a card that read, "With our sympathies."

"I appreciate your sympathising on the death of my cat."

In this sentence, we credit the reader with capabilities far beyond the perfunctory politess. We acknowledge their sensitivity, the potential that they may be grieving even now -- and in the future -- and we imply an understanding that sympathy is not as simple as an "I'm sorry about Fluffy."

The Gerund-and-possessive form allows us to strengthen a relationship, to communicate empathy. To show we get it.

Are you with me now? I knew you'd come around. And believe me, I'm glad. Really, I am. In fact, I'd go so far as to say:

I appreciate your coming around to the Gerund.

*If you didn't click on that link, you're crazy. For God's sakes, open it in a new tab. Gerunds don't get much more amusing than that.

Quote this

Often, one sees "content" that employs "quote marks" for "emphasis". Other times, the author is a bit less "crazy-bananas" and uses the quotes only to highlight slightly "odd" terms.

Of course, quote marks should be used for nothing of the sort. Quote marks, single or double, are intended for use:

• when you're quoting something that someone else has said or written
  
• in written dialogue
• to identify words that form a chapter, article, song, radio or tv title: The post "Quote this" on Backstoryesque discusses quotes.
• to explicitly identify a name or term as such within prose: The paper was marked "Fail".
• to explicitly identify jargon or colloquialisms as such: We call this hairdo a "mullet".
  

This last item seems to be the real sticking point. Why quote mullet but not crazy-bananas? How can you tell when to apply quotes?

If you're explicitly presenting a word as a special term -- as if saying "here's a word you should note or remember" -- give it quotes. If you're simply using the word in prose, it takes no quotes. Thus:

• We call this hairdo a "mullet".
• He had a mullet hairdo and blue suede shoes.

In combination, correctly applied quotes might look like this:

"Boo," said the man. He had a mullet hairdo, blue suede shoes, and "Mum" tattooed on his arm.

I'm not sure whether this guy's rockabilly or just from Reservoir; in any case, he's certainly a character. But not a "character".

[simple Lizzy]

[Cool hands
and a hot head
I played piano while
you played dead
We waited for the signal
that never came
let it hatch
strike a match
won't ever be the same.

You cocked your pistol
I struck a blow
where we went
they won't ever know
I listened for the sound
of the midnight train
in a trap
let her nap
won't ever be the same.

Simple Lizzy
take my hand
Lead me to
another land
Simple Lizzy
show me how—
'cause we ain't ever
goin' home now.

Cool hands
and a hot head
I wished on a star
that you were dead
Lay in the grass
in the morning rain
she's a catch
lift the latch
won't ever be the same.

Strike a match
in a trap
lift the latch
she's a catch
let her nap
in a trap,
in a trap.

Simple Lizzy
oh, sweetheart
Simple Lizzy
you won't ever be the same.]

Trouble in paradise

I have a small problem.

Since I dislike the oppressive walls of books that so many readers seem inexplicably to adore, I keep my books in the wardrobe. Beneath that shelf are eight drawers that look like this:

The thing is, I've run out of space. And since I started Wolf Hall, oh, aeons ago, I've barely looked in this cupboard but to add books (bought, borrowed) or to remove them to lend to others.

Not enough, clearly; I've added more than I've loaned, and now I'm not sure what to do. I literally cannot stand having books crowding about the walls of my rooms -- the rustling pages, the riot of spines, the squeak of cover on cover, the endless hubbub of their mingling ideas unsettling the quiet afternoons.

The cupboard next to this one has linen in it. I'm thinking of sacrificing the sheets for more book space. It's spring, after all, and the hammock is up. Who needs sheets? With books, on the other hand, confinement is entirely necessary; were they allowed out en masse, anything could happen. Whatever it was, it would be the end of my silent paradise.

It would be the end of silence, full stop.

Lies, published lies, and possible lies

The (lack of) scandal over Womens' Day's recent fabrication of Kate Ritchie's wedding exclusive is a grim reminder not to trust the media.

On principle, I'm no advocate of crowd-sourced "news" content. Those little notes at the end of embarrassingly short and usually poorly edited breaking stories on news sites begging, "Did you see the fire/shootout/explosion? Send us your photos and video!" make me want to set up a micropayment system for all the unpaid journalist-bystanders that support such publications.

However, the benefit of citizen-journliasm, crowd-sourced news, and the crappy camera in your phone is this: they help to reduce the prevalence of published lies.

It's not just tabloid newspapers that fabricate stories. These days I take literally everything I read with a grain of salt and as a consequence, the world seems intangible and fanciful, full of lies, published lies, and possible lies. Every piece of information comes to me through the twisted prism of The Great Race For Advertising Dollars. At best, what I know is a complete misrepresentation of reality.

Often, my own personal, physical experience seems like the only concrete reality. Perhaps that's the real reason why crowd-sourced content is beginning to seem so much more believable than the officially "produced" stories.