Disappeared

It is twenty years

to the day,

since you drove

all night,

in foul winter rain.

 

Someone saw him

hitching lifts, a hundred

miles from home.

 

Although exhausted,

we talked all night,

until the sun smiled

between yellow clouds,

well rested from the

day before.

 

And yet, after all

this time we fell foul

of idle speculation

and misinformation;

that he was alive and well.

We hoped it was true,

that he would turn up

someday, out of the blue.

 

I love those tales

of roller blades,

Sunday dance halls

and schoolyard races.

For you, those happy days

are shades of broken smiles

and pallid faces.

 

Seán Maguire


A picture speaks a thousand words (and all that)

We asked our writers to recount a literary experience and provide a pictorial state of mind. One says as much as the other.

Ashlee Poeppmann

My feet relaxing at the beach where I feel most at home.I recently volunteered at the Brisbane Writers Festival last month, and while it was hard work I really enjoyed myself. I was lucky enough to get time to meet and see a few different artists. One of my favourites was Sophie Hannah. It was interesting to hear her story about becoming the ‘new’ Agatha Christie, as Hannah mentioned that it was all just chance that the Christie Estate chose her for the new series. She said you can’t plan luck but you can prepare for it.

My feet relaxing at the beach where I feel most at home.

Carmel Purcell

CarmelLately, most of the literature I have been dealing with has been business-related. I am doing an internship that requires reading many tech-related articles and reports. This has been a positive experience as it has sparked an interest for me in marketing. I intend to learn more about marketing over the next few months and plan to experiment with writing on a variety of different platforms.

This is a picture of me at the markets. I am always in my element when I get to try new kinds of food. I’d love to be a food blogger.  

 

Conan Elphicke

ConanIf I’ve ever had any, they took place years ago, such as when I got tongue-tied in the presence of dissident journalist John Pilger at a book signing, or drove two hours at short notice to see Douglas Adams do a superb book reading at the Harold Park Hotel in Glebe, Sydney.

This conveys my tendency to be a poseur, if nothing else. It was taken in the Noel Coward suite at the Raffles Hotel in Singapore on my honeymoon. I have less hair now and am more dilapidated, physically and psychologically.

 

Elise Janes

Elise beachI’ve taken to streaming author interviews and literary podcasts while I run or do the housework or something else that negates the ability to hold a book in my hand or type. The honesty of some writers is wonderfully liberating but also a constant challenge to my mindset, especially during those long redrafting months when it feels the end will never come. The legendary Maria Popova from Brain Pickings delivered the most recent of these, a rediscovered NYU lecture from Kurt Vonnegut, where he spoke for 50 minutes straight out of his subconscious. He observed that at the age of 47 he’d outlived George Orwell, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, D. H. Lawrence and Jack Kerouac. That gave me pause. As with anything of value it’s the daily getting-up-and-doing that makes it worthwhile, not the so called light at the end of the tunnel. To write everyday, to create, is a privilege. I hope I never forget that.

Jane Abbott

JaneWithout doubt, the most significant experience was when I recently received an offer of publication from Penguin/Random House for their Vintage imprint; a two book deal, with an option on the third. The first book, Watershed, is slated for release next June/July. To have one’s work acknowledged in such a way is the very best possible vindication that you’re on the right track.

 

 

Ken Ward

HMD40-climbing-mountainI’ve never been a big viewer of American TV series. The idea of up to 22 episodes a series with no guarantee of a resolution in the end – not for me. This past year I’ve started to delve into some of the big series over the past 10-15 years, including The Sopranos and Friday Night Lights. There’s so much to love in these programs but it’s what I learnt from the things I hate that’s helped inform my writing of late.
To be specific, Janice Soprano, Tony’s sister. From her first scene, I’ve hated her. Every time she’s on camera, every time she’s talked about while absent my blood pressure boils. I just wish the creators would’ve written her out.
Here’s what I’ve come to understand: Every character has their own agenda, is living their own life and sees events through their own filter. The tension Janice brings to scenes is really important to the drive and push of the story. She’s so blinded by her own sense of entitlement and how unjust life can be, it shapes everything she perceives and does. This impacts the story a lot.
Each time I come to the page and a scene has multiple characters interacting, I’m actively considering this notion from EVERY character’s side: ‘How does this affect my agenda? How is what’s happening here make me feel?’
It’s pushing my scenes and story development in places I didn’t expect I’d go.

 

The Leak

Sun-Through-Hole-In-Roof-of-Engine-Shed-at-Bahnbetriebswerk-Pankow-Heinersdorf

There was a leak in my ceiling. The ceiling paint chipped where the water pooled and the drops dripped heavy and glistening, straight into my bathtub. At least I wouldn’t need a bucket. The drops were consistent; I counted about 10 seconds between each. I was standing in the bathroom doorway brushing my teeth when I first noticed it. Every drop echoed in the porcelain bath and through the hallway.

I’ve lived in this house for four months, but every room already has a broken fixture or fault. The stove broke on the first day. The keys got stuck in both locks on the second. The next week, the tap handles in the kitchen broke and the week after that one of the floorboards snapped beneath my feet. In all instances, the real estate agent took their sweet time to act on the issues. That’s what you get for hurriedly signing the lease for an old Queenslander house for too-good-to-be-true weekly rent. But it was close to work and was as far away from my ex as possible.

I was having a rough year. And to top it all off, I hadn’t sold any of my pictures since I moved in. I just had nothing new and people just weren’t interested in my old stuff anymore. The house was bad luck and I blamed everything on the real estate.

I stared at the leak a bit more while chewing on a piece of toast. I would have stared at it all day if didn’t have to go to work. Staring at my ceiling didn’t seem like a good enough excuse to take the day off.

When I drove to work I couldn’t help but think about the leak. It probably wouldn’t have bothered me so much if I had lived in an apartment on the bottom floor. Someone could have left a tap on too long, or a pipe could have burst. But I lived in a house. Sure, an old crappy house but there was no reasonable explanation for it. There was nothing above me but a roof and the sky.

I discussed the leak on my break. A few people came to a conclusion, that it was just left over from a previous rainstorm and had matured in my ceiling, slowly rotting the timber and curling the paint.

“Are you sure?” I asked them.

“Yeah,” said one co-worker, “it happened to my brother not so long ago. He just let it drip out – didn’t even need to call a plumber.”

“So I’ll just have to wait it out then?”

“I guess.”

When I drove home, I couldn’t help but notice the blue sky. It was an interesting contrast to the brown fields and crinkling forests. It hadn’t rained in this town for months. It flooded around the same time I moved in and my paintings stopped selling. Maybe I was cursed.

I stood in my bathroom doorway again, counting the drops. It was now 8 seconds between each, and the drips were no longer a hollow sound on the porcelain bath. The drips slapped into a pool of water that had grown while I was away. The plug was out of the bath (I don’t even think I had a plug) so there would have been blockages in the pipes as well. But with only 8 seconds between each drop I wasn’t too worried. It took only a day to fill a quarter of the bath. I could wait till tomorrow to find a plumber.

But just my luck when I woke up in the morning the leak had increased – now 5 seconds between each. And the bath, well, it was the first time I had ever seen it full. And the water was clear, beautifully crystal clear. If it had been manifesting in my ceiling I would have expected it to be dirty and full of rot. What sort of leak was this?

I rang the agent as I watched the drops splat into the bath. They put me on hold for five minutes. Then there was a cheery hello.

“Yes hello,” I said boldly, “I would like to get a plumber over my place as soon as possible please.”

“No problems at all, which house are you from?” said the too-cheery voice and I was a bit insulted that they didn’t already know me by now. A plumber was organised anyway and would be at my place between 11am and 1pm tomorrow.

The plumber arrived at 1:15pm and we both stood in the doorway of my bathroom, staring at the leak.

“That’s damn clear water.” He said.

“Damn clear.” I said. “Can you fix it?”

“The easiest thing to do is it just let it leak out.”

“How long will that take?”

“Depends on the size of water in the ceiling.”

“Ok.” I said and just stood around while the plumber fixed the blocked pipes in the bath.

“Really shouldn’t take longer than a week.”

A week?” I said, shocked that I would have to endure drips and splats echoing though the hallway and in my dreams for a week.

“Don’t stress yourself over it.” The plumber said and left. I think he stole my pen.

That night I drowned in my dreams and the next morning I woke up in a sweat. Maybe the plumber was right; maybe I’m just going insane. I got up and walked to the bathroom. Strangely, the pipes were clogged up again, and the bath was full. 2 seconds between each drip now. And the ceiling was almost curved a little… like it was only just now heaving under the weight of the water. And the bathroom floor wasn’t any better. I stepped on one tile and the whole floor creaked like it was screaming from my touch. This wasn’t good. But I had an idea, and I grabbed my camera. This was the first bit of inspiration I’d had all year.

I waited for about an hour before the water in the ceiling finally broke through. It poured into my bathroom like a waterfall. The pressure from the water buckled the floor and the room crashed in on itself. The mirror smashed and the walls cracked and split. A palm tree fell in through the window. There was now a hole in the ceiling was the leak had been, and the sun was shining through.

I took a picture. I took a few. The rest of the house was still sturdy, but maybe not for long. Maybe I would sell the picture, and earn thousands. I would definitely get some sort of insurance pay out. But, either way, I’d have to call the agent and inform them of the situation. I hoped they would remember me by now.

 

Ashlee Poeppmann

On “This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody)”

If you distilled Baudrillard, Derrida, Michel Foucault, Roland Barthes, Marshall McLuhan and Noam Chomsky into a band, chances are you’d get Talking Heads. They weren’t the first band to sing about consumerism or the media or the meaninglessness of meaning but they did it like nobody else. More Songs About Buildings and Food. Fear Of Music. Talking Heads were a virtual New York of the imagination, all skyscrapers and horns and fast-talking street vendors and cabbies. Like New York, geographically located in the United States but not completely of it, Talking Heads may have been associated with Punk and the New Wave but they were always tuned to a slightly different frequency, David Byrne fronting the band like he was hooked up to an ECG machine telling listeners about a van loaded with weapons and the sound of gunfire in the distance and the diminishing shelf life of identity and possessions.

this must be the placeThen in 1983 they released their fifth and most commercially successful album to date, Speaking In Tongues, with the single “Burning Down the House” peaking at Number 9 in the American Billboard charts. Despite this mainstream popularity, Speaking In Tongues lacked none of the groundbreaking edge of previous albums, with the band trashing the traditional verse – chorus – verse conventions of the song for more hypnotic signatures and beats normally found in gospel or jazz. And no better is this illustrated than in the final track of the album, “This Must Be The Place (Naïve Melody)”.

“This Must Be the Place” is a love song. Its simplicity – the enchanting, happy, catchy riff played simultaneously by both guitar and bass providing no counterpoint to the melody – verges on an asylum soporific, or a lullaby, with David Byrne singing the word ‘home’ over and over again as a kind of refrain. But its simplicity is deceptive. There’s a bewilderment to the song, a constant reassuring that home is where we are, where we’re supposed to be, and nothing’s wrong because one thing means the other. But it doesn’t. Not always. Everything about “This Must Be the Place” is slightly uncertain, vulnerable, baffled, reaching out for something to grab on to as we guess we’re OK, we guess we’re at home, we guess nothing’s wrong but not sure. It’s a lullaby sung to a newborn, with all the puzzled fear and apprehension a newborn has gazing out at a world full of colours, shapes and sounds. Being told it’s safe. Whispered. And you’re holding this newborn. A child you’ve participated in creating. Their tiny body slung over your shoulder as you lull them to sleep, burp them, their little head attached to their neck by a ribbon, their diffident creaks and yelps, now looking up at you with deep olive eyes saying…

You got a face with a view

I’m just an animal looking for a home

And share the same space for a minute or two

And you love me till my heart stops

Love me till I’m dead…

Byrne with lamp 3There’s a beautiful moment in Stop Making Sense, Jonathan Demme’s concert film of Talking Heads live in LA, where the lights go down, and the band begins “This Must Be the Place”. David Byrne turns on a ‘50s-style floor lamp with a pull cord, as a bookcase is projected onto a screen behind the band. Home. As the song ends, David Byrne invites the lamp to dance, and at one point reaches out Byrne with lamp 1with both arms and takes the lamp into his embrace and holds it there for a moment before releasing it to topple precariously on its stand as if finding its feet. Which it does. And the song ends. But Byrne’s dance with the lamp remains. There’s something going on here, like a coda that both closes and accentuates the meaning of the song. This awkward dance with the lamp, this fragile song about love, is as simple and hard as it gets. You make it up as you go along. Like the newborn asleep in your arms. You’re their shelter, their food, their answers, their love, their laughter, their safety, their home. It’s bedtime. You swaddle them carefully in a white muslin wrap, as David Byrne sings:

Never for money, only for love

Cover up and say goodnight

Say goodnight…

   Sean Macgillicuddy

  • “This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody)” (1983). Label: Sire. B-side Moon Rocks. Lyrics by David Byrne music by the band from the album Speaking In Tongues
  • Stop Making Sense (1984) concert movie directed by Jonathan Demme shot over the course of three nights at Hollywood’s Pantages Theater.

Harry

Sean has just welcomed his new son Harry into the world.