JUST WONDERING

Am I the only one who wonders what would have happened if the young Bruce Wayne had fallen down that hole and landed in, say, a badger’s set instead?

A CONGREGATION OF CANTLETS

1. I’m sick, Connor is sick, we go to the doctor’s for a checkup. It’s sniffles and running noses all round, so it’s bound to be just a cold, but Connor’s got a chesty cough and I need the sick note for work, so we find our nearest medical centre and make an appointment.

This is our first visit to a doctor in Mandurah, so Connor receives The Talk before we go. Once there we’re called up; enter the doctor’s room, and the doctor, who is the kind that keeps a big plastic tub of his jelly beans on his desk, turns to Connor first. After the usual “What’s your name? And how old are you?” pleasantries, and assurances that no needles will be utilized (Connor’s current doctor fear); he asks Connor what’s wrong with him.

“I have Spine Flu!” is my son’s cheery reply.

He earns three jelly beans for that one.

2. I’ve written the beginning of the novel. I’ve written the end. I’ve written 80 000 words of the middle. It’s just the remaining 20 000 words of holes that I’m having trouble with. Between work, overtime, the house, my family and my own natural inclinations I just can’t get it together to make a concerted effort at finishing it off. It’s enough to prove that I’ll never be successfully serious (or vice versa) as a novelist. I’d be less worried if I was any good at my job. Meanwhile, those whose career arcs roughly parallel my own sail into book deals with Orbit, Harper Collins and the like...

3. My third period of mentorship for the AHWA is drawing to a close, and third time is likely to be the last. Much as I enjoy it, I’m unsatisfied by my efforts this time round—disruptions have been plentiful, and I don’t feel like I’ve given my mentees value for money. I do what I can, but am beginning to think that what I can do isn’t enough any more. It's time to take stock of what I want to do, and what I need to do, and put one before the other.

4. I’d be able to get medication if I could translate all this ennui into full-blown depression, but it seems like too much hard work.

5. Every time I think I should just chuck it all in and become a professional poker player I go online and some bugger beats me with something like a 7-3 off suit.

6. We finally get around to watching the remake of The Day the Earth Stood Still. It’s enjoyable, for the most part, although I’m of the opinion that it starts fantastically well and then gets more and more ordinary as it progresses. Late that night, Lyn and I lie in bed together and dissect the movie, and I’m struck by an experience I’ve not had to such an extent since Independence Day—that of thoroughly enjoying a movie whilst watching it but then discussing it afterwards to the point of considering it a failure. It’s a strange experience, to persuade oneself of an opposing viewpoint after the direct experience. We are agreed, however, that Keanu Reeves has found his niche over the last decade or so. As Lyn said, after the Matrix movies, Constantine, and the terminally tedious A Scanner Darkly, she can’t think of another actor as suited to effectively playing characters so utterly removed from even the most basic of human emotions.

7. No such trouble earlier in the day, when we watched Igor with the kids—that one stayed ordinary all the way through…

8. If Captain Beefheart, Captain Sensible, and the Captain from Captain & Tennille were all on the same ship, how would they decide who got to steer?

JUST ANOTHER BORING OLD WEEKEND IN MANDURAH

This is what we moved down here for.

Yesterday, after Connor returned from his friend's birthday party, we piled into the car and drove out to the Pinjarra Show, where we spent three hours wandering around stalls, listening to horrendously bad country music (by a band named, wait for it, "The Lone Rangers". Yup, the only four blokes in town who haven't seen Airheads....), and fondling antiques while the kids went on camel rides, fondled snakes, and stuffed themselves full of strange-flavoured licorice. (Sour ice-cream flavour? Really?). And, of course, underwent the obligatory face-painting. Battkid-style:

My daughter the skeleton (only because the face painter refused to do a vampire), and her younger brother, Hulk. The girls directly behind them took one look, and asked for butterflies...

Today, after a fish & chip lunch overlooking the canal, we picked up Blakey from the train station and whisked ourselves off to the foreshore, where we piled onto a boat and spent an hour cruising through the canals into the bay, where a pod of dolphins played tag with the prow and we all sat around wondering what the working classes were up to :)

The view less than a foot away from our, well, feet.

On the way back into the foreshore, Erin and Connor were ushered to the front of the cabin. And one after the other, they got to do this:

Because what you want when you're steering a $200 000 boat through narrow canals bounded by houses worth an average of $3M each is a psychotic 4 year old at the wheel. His first words upon grasping the wheel? "We're going to CRASH!" :)

Reason number one for moving here was to give our kids a lifestyle they weren't getting in the Northern Suburbs. So far, good God, it's proving easy.

TIDBITS TO TIDE YOU OVER

Things are still mega busy at the new Batthome, so just to keep in contact, a couple of thoughts--

ON THE PREMIER LEAGUE

Is the anything funnier than seeing a fat, shirtless, toothless Geordie man crying?

ON POULTRY BEHAVIOUR

So to bide our time while Mum nipped into the shop, Erin, Connor and I sat in the car and told each other jokes. I was still crying with laughter from this effort when Lyn got back:

ERIN: Connor, why did the chicken cross the road?
CONNOR: (Pauses for well over half a minute while he contemplates possible answers. Finally....) Because he's stupid?

Laugh? I nearly wet myself.


More soon, with added substance!

INCIDENTALLY...

... and those of you who know me will realise what a big thing it is that I say this:

I loved Star Trek.

SHIT NECK HIGH AND RISING

Hello my absent friends. I have returned.

It's been a strenuous and stressful time since we last spoke. Moving an entire household of 5 people a hundred-plus kilometres with only the assistance of a teensy tiny wife, my father, and a 3 tonne truck was, to say the least, physically draining.

My Dad, it should be noted, is not only a man of rare brilliance when it comes to packing a truck, there is every possibility that underneath his skin lies the plutonium heart of a Terminator. Seriously, this man could cut his head off, and would simply gaffer tape it back on, finish the job, and go for a beer. To paraphrase Larry Miller, if I go to the bank and the post office in the same day, I need a lie down. Without him, we may still be dragging the last of the pot plants up the driveway.

But we're in, and the last panic over the seller's paperwork is slowly dying down (Oh, the happiness that comes from dealing with an NESB seller who communicates through her 13 year old son and didn't think to apply for probate when her husband died intestate. Oh, how we've laughed.....). And just when we thought we might get to put our feet up and crack a coldie: bad family news struck last night, rather horrible news in fact. Private news that I'm not going to discuss here (although everyone who lives under our roof is okay, for those who might be worried). Lyn and I are heartbroken, and as much as we're there for the person to whom the tragedy has befallen, there is no good that can come from it, and it's cast a pall over our first days in this house.

So I'm back, blogosphere, and I'm sure the whole world has fallen into disrepair while I've been gone-- don't worry, I'll send a man around. As to the rest, give us a short while.

NB: If you're a friend, and unaware of the news, don't be alarmed. If you're worried, just email me, and we'll chat.

INCOMMUNICADO or HURRY THE FUCK UP AND BE FRIDAY ALREADY!

So it's been a while, and sorry to say, my little darlings, but it'll be a little while yet before I'm fully back to my blogging best. We're on the move, y'see: upping sticks and moving the entire Battourage a hundred plus kilometres southwards where we shall set up shop by the sea and spend the rest of our days tormenting stray dolphins and eating crab and fetta pies.

Upshot is, the phone line goes bye byes here some time tomorrow night and won't be up at the new place until early next week. Until then, no internets for busy Batts.

In the meantime, feel free to have yourselves an open thread in the comments section, and a picture I took at the state aquarium some time ago:

YEAH, WELL, WHATEVER

Yeah, it's been a month since I've posted, but to be quite honest I haven't been bothered. There's a lot of Real Life (tm) going on at the moment. Big decisions are being made regards life, career, writing, and general Stuff (pat. pend.)

Frankly, blogging ain't that important.

But to keep you all entertained, and to help explain to my most excellent Bonus Boys why Criss Angel is just a little bit shit, this:

LET'S MAKE CHILDHOOD MEMORIES WRONG

You know what's funny? Replacing the word 'duckie' wth 'willy'....

DEAD CHICK TWO: THIS TIME IT'S PERSONAL

His consistent attention to voice, his narrative muscle and unrelenting delving into a mind denied its presumed right to have what it wants, all conspire to make this story resonate.... The dread inexorable march of bloodshed won me over.

So sayeth judge Sarah Endacott, in awarding The Claws of Native Ghosts this year's Australian Shadows Award.

To say I'm chuffed would be to understate the case. The Australian Shadows is the Australian equivalent of the Stokers-- a technical award, given by the industry peak body, judged by industry professionals. To be shortlisted in a field alongside Sara Douglass, Paul Haines, and rising stars Jason Fischer and Chris Green was cool enough. To beat them was gratifying indeed.

Gary Kemble interviewed me in the wake of the award announcement for the ABC arts blog Articulate, and you can read it here. As is mention in the interview, to be recognised for both the entertainment value and technical merits of my work is extremely rewarding.

I've set aside this weekend for being unbearably smug, and then I'll get back to work on Monday.

WHY THE PAUSE, LEE?

So, a lack of content here on the Battersblog recently, as well as a general lack of activity in any way, shape or form on the being-a-writer front.

Of course, I have a fair excuse.

What with getting everything ready for the rounds of appointments and open homes; as well as beautifying gardens; performing all those maintenance jobs that I would have got around to eventually, probably, sooner or later while we were living here but now have to be done NOW, dammit; and starting my AHWA mentorship with Mark and Grant, this year's sacrificial victims; and listening to my kids pretend to be Hercules and Xena after watching that putrid cartoon movie of those two putrid televisual debacles thanks to the Cartoon Network; and running down to Mandurah every weekend to look at houses and put offers in and sit on the balcony at Cicirello's and eat fish and chips while we watch boats come in and out of the harbour; and learn to play Texas Hold-em so we know what the hell's going on when we watch the Professional Poker Tour late on a Saturday night; and occasionally sleep; and balance papers with the bank as we go back and forth organising finance and altering loan details and negotiating interest rates and all the crap you have to do with banks even though you've been a customer for something like twenty five years and you think they'd know you by now......... well, it's been a bit hectic lately.

Still, we'll undoubtedly get the offer we want this afternoon, and have the finance sorted out by the middle of the week, and then all we'll have to do is pack up and move to our beautiful new beachside suburb and spend the rest of our lives lying on beach blankets being fed grapes by oil-smeared underwear models, right?

NAMELESS

The Nameless project continues: another anonymous chapter here before Brett McBean breaks the chain of silence and attaches his name to the 17th chapter.

GRATUITOUS THREE PANEL COMIC LINK

I came, I read, I snorted with laughter.


Real content soon, I promise. Probably Friday. Yeah, probably then...

TWEET TWEET

• We've seen another house, so back to bloomin' Mandurah again today!
• Have put an offer on a house and had it accepted. All that remains is to start shitting ourselves while waiting for bank approval.
• Have chosen my AHWA mentees. Let the senseless torture of innocent aspiring writers begin!
• Should be in bed- to work early tomorrow. But I'm too awake, slightly scared by the finances to come. Wish I knew how best to proceed
• A day of shattered tiredness thanks to non-sleepy squirmin' child. Please let tonight be better.
• @eugiefoster Zombies. Zombies go up like dry tinder.
• Head to the left, galley to the right, weird shit off the port bow.

NAMELESS NAMELESSES ON...

Nameless part 15 by not-Rosaleen Love.

And before that, Nameless part 14 by not-Margo Lanagan.

The Nameless Saga is beginning to really live up to its name...

A SHORT SHORT SHORT FOR YOUR EDIFICATION

One of the funninest sites to hop on to the Twitter bandwagon is a little thing called Thaumatrope, that publishes short stories of less than 140 characters in length. I've sold them a couple of stories-- it's funny how the possibility of money can turn what used to be random thoughts into a paying story idea-- here's my story they published for Valentine's Day, for example:

They loved each other, and so gave freely of themselves. For her, his heart, in a velvet-lined box. In return, her face, tied with a bow.

If you have a twitter account, follow them: the likes of Mary Robinette Kowal, Alathea Kontis and Greg van Eekhout have contributed, and it's a nice feeling to get some fiction in amongst the notices that Bill Bloggs has woken up and is about to go to the toilet.

Anyway, the reason I mention all this is that they're closed to submissions, and I can't be bothered waiting until they re-open to loose yesterday's random idea onto the world. So have 140 words of free Battfiction, on me:

The drowned child returned. In her embrace he found an absolution missing for thirty years. When she returned to the lake, she was not alone


As you were.

TO LIGHTEN THE MOOD

Some brief but good news, writing-wise:

Final edits on Smuggler's Moon have been delivered to New Ceres Nights tonight. The book itself is due in April.

And I've just been told that Sydney University Press will be publishing an anthology of Remix My Lit stories, due out on 4th May. I've been asked for, and have delivered, a bio, so I'm assuming Alchymical Romance will be amongst them. More details as they come to light.

HELL OF A NOTE TO GET

Dear Parent/Carer,

A Year 4 student at (our kids') Primary School reported an intruder in the boys toilet before lunchtime today. He reported a man about 40 years old with long dark hair, dressed in dark clothing and wearing a mask. The man ordered the bout out of the toilets.

There's more, but that's the important bit.

After last week's murder experience, we decided to move by the end of next year. Now, we're moving as soon as we can get everything sorted out.

A MURDER TOO CLOSE TO HOME

Keen-eyed readers will be aware that my family and I live in Clarkson, a northern suburb of Perth (or southern suburb of Geraldton, according to several friends).

Keen-eyed watchers of the news will have heard that a murder occurred in Clarkson a couple of nights ago. You can read about it here and here.

Here's the newsie round up: two groups men got into an argument over a girl whilst hanging out at a local primary school. One man stabbed another. His mates got him to hospital, then went to the stabber's house and, unable to break into the locked house to gain their revenge, chased a friend into his shed and stabbed him 20 times, killing him.

Here's our round-up: we live across the road from our son and daughter's primary school. Directly opposite our house are a number of parallel-parking spaces. Beyond them, a path leads from the footpath into the school. From our front door to the basketball courts is a distance of maybe fifty feet. Our children walk that path twice a day, every day.

On Wednesday night, whilst Lyn was pulling the car out to take Aiden to guitar practice, several men ran from the school grounds, up the path, openly bearing weapons (Lyn mentioned at least one golf club) and screaming death threats at people behind them. They jumped into a car in the parallel parking spots, and screamed away, almost side-swiping our car in the process. By the time Lyn had dropped Aiden off, picked me up at the train station and returned home—maybe twenty minutes—the area was roped off and several police were in attendance. Twenty feet from our front door was a crime scene. These men had been in a knife fight. In our children's school. On the pathway that our children walk down from the road to the basketball courts on their way to school. Twenty feet from our front door. These men then went and murdered someone in a house in our suburb. Murdered an innocent bystander because they were angry and seeking revenge over an argument about a girl.

I'm not stupid and I'm not naïve. I know about crime: I've seen it, been its victim, known perpetrators and criminals of various stripes over the years. I know it happens in suburbs and in homes. I'm not blind. I don't even bat an eyelid at the notion of murder- I live in a city that's played host to two of the worst serial murderers in Australian history, a city where people get thrown from traffic bridges and if the bouncers don't get you in our nightspots, the gangs will. I've met suicides, prostitutes, and convicted drug felons. They don't make rose coloured glasses in my prescription. But:

If Lyn had been half a second slower on the brakes, she and my children would have been part of this crime. They would have been innocent bystanders in the way of a gang of angry, armed men who had already (and would go on to) exhibit extreme, fatal, violence. I have no shred of doubt that they would have been seriously harmed. My children's school is a crime scene. The path they walk every day of the school week is, quite literally, a blood-soaked crime scene. One of the two places my children should feel safest in the world has been used as a backdrop to gang violence and attempted murder.

I will not tolerate my family being in such an environment.

Aiden finishes his high school career at the end of next year. We will take that time to get the house ready, and then we will sell it, and move. Mandurah appeals: we have friends there, it is close to the town where I grew up, and it has everything I consider necessary for a good family environment. It is time to get ready, and leave.