MUSE*LI:

“NASA have this phrase that they like: ‘Failure is not an option.’  But failure has to be an option, in art, and in exploration, because it’s a leap of faith.  And no important endeavour that required innovation was done without risk.  You have to be willing to take those risks.  So that’s the thought I would leave you with: it’s that whatever you’re doing, failure is an option.  But fear is not.”

- James Cameron, TED.com talk

Eight rules for writing fiction:

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things — reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a sadist. Now matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them — in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

- Vonnegut, Kurt Vonnegut, Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction (New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons 1999), 9-10.

Marcel Proust’s answers to his own questionnaire, and below, mine:

*

What is your most marked characteristic?

Over-enthusiasm.

What is the quality you most like in a man?

Ambition.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?

The capacity for empathy.

What do you most value in your friends?

The ability to feel safe and comfortable; to be finally found at home.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

Laziness; lack of will; tendency for self-pity.

What is your favorite occupation?

Loving.  Imagining.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Friends, family, love, creativity, physical and intellectual freedom and ability.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

I would agree with Proust – not having known my grandmother.

In which country would you like to live?

In one whereby I am loved and surrounded by family and friends, and fulfilled by life and work.  One where I am part of a community.  Countries are not so much of an issue, I much prefer cities – Melbourne, Paris, Rio De Janiero and New York at the top of my list.

Who are your favorite writers?

At the moment, Vladimir Nabokov, Michael Ondaatje, Arundhati Roy, Haruki Murakami, Milan Kundera, Nam Le, John Murray, Christos Tsiolkas, Yann Martel.  I have yet to embark on Marcel Proust.

Who are your favorite poets?

Michael Ondaatje, Pablo Neruda, Charles Bukowski, Allen Ginseberg, Jack Kerouac.

Who is your favorite hero of fiction?

Hamlet, Toru (Norwegian Wood), Humbert Humbert (Lolita).  I would say Yossarian if I had finished Catch 22.

Who is your favorite heroine of fiction?

Josephine Alibrandi.  An oldie but a goodie.  Also Ammu from The God of Small Things.  Arkadina (The Seagull).  Wong Chia Chi (Lust, Caution).  Carrie (Sex and the City – TV series).

Who are your favorite composers?

Sufjan Stevens.  Ravel.  Beethoven.  Regina Spektor, Rufus Wainwright.  Paul Castles!

Who are your favorite painters?

I’m going to change this to artists…Bill Henson, Picasso.

What are your favorite names?

I think Regina Spektor is a pretty cool name!

What is it that you most dislike?

My laziness.  Rudeness in others.

Which talent would you most like to have?

The self-confidence and belief in myself to always follow my heart.  Self-discipline.

How would you like to die?

Loved, full with the knowledge that I had a good life, and knowing that I am leaving a huge oeuvre of respected work (and a family dynasty!) behind me.

What is your current state of mind?

A bit tired as I have been on the computer for some time, and annoyance at myself for not having done any work yet.

What is your motto?

Go deep, take a leap, be brave, explore.

First half of a verse monologue I’m writing for school/for myself.  I met an Ethiopian man on a tram once, and although he didn’t speak in verse, he did tell me that his spirit was not straight when he saw a beautiful girl (he also told me his father was king of Ethiopia…yeah).  In any case, it was good inspiration for a monologue.  Hopefully have first part finished by next weekend.

*

So I get on de tram which all pack, lots peeps rack to rack.  An’ I sink to meself, if I make like a ball then inspector can’t call.  So I find a small nook an’ try an’ look crook.  De tram stops again and is filled wiv new ken.  An’ oh!  My spirit not straight!  Beautiful girl shining like beautiful lake. For I seen dem cream but never do they gleam.  Dis girl, she be shining like pearl!  Skin white like an island, an’ sparklin’ like diamonds.  An’ she got devilish mane!  Is red like a dame.  Breathin’ an’ dancin’ and sparkin’ like flame! Like an African devil.  Me blood it is revel.  An’ maybe is blood or maybe is love, but I feel she de one that be sent from above.  In my heart I know dat we be born to be pair.

An’ I glean, ‘Boy you be keen.  But you gotta be care.’

So I’s prepare. I gotta be cool.  Canna look like a fool!  In winder I look see me hairstyle not cinder.  My shirt it not dressy but at least it not messy!  My girl she be standin’ near tram door an’ landin.’  I plan me big walkin’ wiv smilin’ and talkin’.  When tram doors dey open den I be starting me ropin’.  An’ from dere take it slow.  An’ watch meself go!  An’ so I wait for a bit an’ den doors dey den split an then me soul, it go leap!  Now is time to go reap!   But I tell meself calm and unclench me palm, to let me heartache unfurl.  An’ go get me girl!

My heart beats one twenty, I sweating plenty, standing up gently and oops! Now she has met me!

“Hello, nice day.  Did you see de blue sky?  De clouds no more cry.  I got friend live in Fitz.  He a little bit schiz but not always in pits we sometimes go out and let him hang all about.  Sometimes we scout.  Do you have dem friends dat you see on weekends?”

She don’ look my way.  She readin’ a book.  Perhaps she is sook?  Or maybe I talkin’ so much she be crook.  I decide to speak less, make comment on her dress.  Or maybe best to start wiv a comment ‘bout art.  But I digress!  She deserve nussink but best!  I sink I will try wiv a look in her face. Den she can see dat I’ve crookness no trace.  So when de fat man sittin’ gets up to stan’, I sit in his place an’ I make like a fan.

An’ I look at her eye and bravely I try:

“Hi.”

She look up.  Her eyes, they like a cup o’ green water, I’m slaughter.  Makes me sink o’ me daughter.  But I shake meself out cos me mouth wants to spout:

“I notice you readin’.  Would you share what you feedin’?”

An’ she looks at me smilin’, an’ damn! She beguiling!

“Yes,” she say wiv a flick o’ her dress. “It’s Proust.  To give me a boost.  When I need to be loosed.”

“Proust,” I say, “I never introduced.  But I can get used.”

An’ wiv her unhappy look I can see be wanting to go to her book.  So quickly I say:

“Look!  I can learn about Proust, you give me a day!  But don’t be so grey!  Firs’ you mus’ tell me what Proust is about.”

An’ her lips lose dey pout.  An’ oh! As her tongue starts to twirl I see teeth just like pearls!

“Proust wrote of time.  How memory is a crime.  He wrote of his loves and how to look up above.  To stop forcing your ghosts and allow things to coast.  Of not loving his wife.”

An’ I say,

“Hey!  Dat sounds my life!”

I was strolling through the internet when I came across the wesbite of artist Kareena Zerefos.  Scrolling down the page I realised that not only had I seen her whimsical sketches before, but that I had gone to primary school with her, and had been classmates with her cousin.  After studying graphic design at COFA, I read, she decided to make the plunge into fulltime illustration a couple of years ago (talent and courage!). Here are some samples of her drawings, some of them might look familiar:

Perhaps this is why I crave solitude so much (via Zen Habits):

http://zenhabits.net/creative-habit/

he said

will you write
about me
then?

yes

I said

and then
I wrote
about

him

She was squat and square and at first I was afraid of her.  But as she led me to her room, grinning with a big bulging smile, she suddenly looked like a friendly Freddo frog, and my apprehension tadpoled away.  She sat me down at her desk and asked me to wait as she did a few things.  While she answered her phone, I took this as an opportunity to have a good look at her. She had long black hair like a lot of older Indian women and wore several gold rings like pipes on her fingers.  Pinks, greens, blues shouted on her sari.  Around her neck was a pashmina scarf, that had sworls on it that reminded me of rainbow icecream.  At the bottom of the scarf I noticed a tag that was the same as that on the scarf that a friend had given me for my birthday. Her earrings were muscat coloured stones, clustered together like a bunch of grapes.  As she hung up the phone, she turned to me, and with a monotonic but amiable voice, said:

“What’s the problem, little miss?”

Surprised by her familiarity, I scratched together a reply.

“I have, aarhhhcchh, tonsillitis…”

My new favourite doctor stretched out a broad smile like a big, colourful Chesire cat.

“Is that so? Let’s have a look at your throat, then.”

My lymph nodes feeling as if they were ready to jump out of my skin, I nodded.  Picking up a tongue depressor and a torch, the doctor came around the side of the desk and asked me to open my mouth.  With one short prod of my tongue and a squint at my tonsils, she stood up and grinned triumphantly at me.

“Indeed you do!  White spots every where.”

Whipping out an ear-o-scope thermometer, she slipped a cone of clear plastic over the earpiece, and nippled it into my ear.

“No temperature. But you do need antibiotics. And lots of rest.”

I nodded meekly.  A phial of pharmaceutical pens lolled around on her desk.  It had been some time since I had acquired myself such a colourful piece of candy, and I was itching for a new one.  Sitting back down behind her desk, my doctor began writing out a prescription.

“I want you to take penicillin, two tablets twice a day before meals. You can have as much panadol, panadeine as you want.  You want to get rid of this as soon as possible.  Is there anything else that you need?”

I shook my head.  I was pretty happy to take the drugs and lie prone for about a month, but if she had had any other suggestions, I would have been happy with those too.

“No thank you.  That’s all.”

There was a twinkle in her voice.  ”Perhaps you might need a medical certificate for school?”

“Oh, um, yes.  That would be great, please.”

She opened the file on her computer and printed off a note.  As she typed she sang a Hindi song softly under her breath.  While I waited for her to sign the sheet, I noticed the bunch of sugary pink flowers like a big cloud of fairy floss that the receptionist had brought in at the beginning of the session.  Seeing them there made me feel cheerful.  Despite the expense, I was glad that I had taken the time to come in for a doctor’s appointment. The act of being looked after was something that I had been dearly missing during the past few months in Melbourne, and here was clearly an example of people allowing themselves to be cared for.  Being at the doctor’s surgery had finally made me realise that taking the time to look after myself was not something to do just for fun, but a human necessity.  As I stood up to take the medical certificate, I decided that I would begin looking after myself by doing my favourite thing of going to the library and borrowing a book to read when I got home.

“Take care of yourself,” she said as I left.  And, closing the door behind me, for the first time in a long time, I felt like I would.

A silly little story that I came up with this morning for my movement assessment.  We had to tell a story using mime and voice, including whatever we wanted from what we’ve learned over the past term.  I’ve kind of expanded some bits and shortened others as I got carried away writing it down, but you get the idea.  I was kind of impressed that I could come up with that on the tram ride, and although I don’t think I executed it that well, I think the story is worth reworking into a proper fable.

*

Once upon a time, in a village far away, there lived a girl who loved to dance.

When she was happy, she danced (and here I did flamenco dance #1).

When she was angry, she danced (flamenco dance #2).

And when she was sad, she danced (flamenco dance #3)!

Not only did the girl love dancing, but she was a talented dancer too.  She was known throughout the land for her sensitive and skilled dancing.

Near the village, however, in a big, grand palace, there lived a grand vizier.  The grand vizier was known to be very evil.  The grand vizier had heard about this girl’s brilliant dancing skill, and wanted to see the girl dance for himself.  He had a long thin moustache, and as he ordered his scribe to capture this girl, he  stroked his pointy beard.

‘Get the girl for me, boy,’ he said (and at this point I adopted a Dr Evil voice).

And the scribe clicked his heels together, saluted, and scampered off.

One day, when the girl was dancing through the forest, she heard a sound.  Someone was following her.  She had just learnt a new step, and was keen to practice it. Thinking that it was simply a bird, she focussed her attention and kept dancing.  Another sound from behind the bushes.  She stopped and turned around.  Nothing.  Thinking that she was going mad, she turned back to her dancing.  And it was at this moment that the scribe leapt out from behind the bushes and carried off the dancing girl.

The scribe took her to the castle, running through the catacombs and warrens (and here I ran through the catacombs and warrens).  Finally he placed her down in front of the grand vizier.

‘Hmmf,’ said the grand vizier.  ’I've heard about your skill.  I want you to dance for me.’

The girl was terrified, but she tried to dance anyway (and here, another dance).

‘Poo!’ said the grand vizier, ‘not as good as my prima ballerina.  Another!’

And of course the girl was white with fear, but, gathering all her courage, she danced again (insert dance).

‘I do not like it,’ said the grand vizier.  ’I banish you to my dungeons.  But first, a little punishment.’ And he pointed his wand at her shoes.

The girl felt a tingling sensation in her feet.  It was the sensation she felt when she felt the desire to dance.  But then all of a sudden her feet began to move, without her even trying!  She danced and danced, as beautifully as she ever could, but when she tried to stop, she found that she could not.

‘Since you like dancing so much,’ laughed the grand vizier, ‘you can dance all you like in my dungeons.  Scribe, take her away!’

And so the scribe took the very petrified girl down to the dungeons.

Down in the dungeons, the girl was very scared.  Her feet were aching, but she could not stop dancing, nor could she take her shoes off.  She hoped someone would save her.

Meanwhile, the scribe who had locked the girl into her dungeon felt very bad for the girl.  He too had been a talented child that the grand vizier had captured, and he missed his beautiful singing voice terribly.  That night, he came up with a plan to rescue the girl.

That night, in his study, the grand vizier ordered the scribe to play some music.

‘Play, boy,’ he ordered (once again, as Dr Evil).

The boy played his flute.  He played so sweetly and beautifully that the grand vizier dropped off within minutes.  Reaching over, the boy pulled out the grand vizier’s wand.  Thrilled at his daring, he ran down to the dungeon to rescue the dancing girl.

The girl was very excited to see him when he arrived, for she was very tired from dancing and her feet were beginning to bleed.  With a wave of the wand, the boy made the shoes stop dancing.  Grateful, and ecstatic to be released, the girl hugged and kissed him.

‘How can I ever repay you?’ she asked.

‘I too had a beautiful talent, once,’ said the boy, ‘and I would very much like to get it back.’

So the boy and the girl crept back to the grand vizier’s study where the rand vizier was still sleeping.  Pointing the wand at the grand vizier, the girl waved her hands.  Immediately a golden ball of light arose from the grand vizier’s neck, floated into the air.  Pulsing gaily, the ball began to sing.  It was the boy’s beautiful singing voice.  To the girl’s surprise, as the voice filled the room with its lovely melody, the boy began to cry.

‘My voice! My voice, my beautiful singing voice! It’s been so long since I’ve heard it.’

‘Well, there’s no need to cry, as now you’ll be hearing it all the time,’ said the girl.  And with a flick of the wand,the golden ball flew down into the boy’s mouth and rested in his throat.

The boy was ecstatic.  ’My voice!  My singing voice!  I have it back!’ cried the boy. Ecstatic, he began to sing.  He sang so loudly and so proudly that the grand vizier woke up.

‘What’s this?  What are you doing here?  What’s going on?’ shouted the grand vizier as he opened his eyes.

Terrified, the girl waved the wand at the vizier’s feet.  And the vizier’s feet began to dance.  It was the same spell that he had cast on the girl, the spell that would make him dance forever and ever until he died.

‘What in the name of?  I curse you, boy, and that girl!’

‘No more curses,’ said the girl, and with a flick of the wand, the vizier lost his voice forever.

And the boy and the girl went back to the village singing and dancing, and they lived happily ever after!