Spring Sprung

Lots, lots, lots, but mostly that was a dire winter. Then, in September Greece, Kefalonia to be exact, either the island of Odysseus or the island next door. Soon, in early December, Antigua. Order has been restored: I spent almost two years not travelling - thinking that my restlessness was circumstantially aggravated by constant movement. but aha! it is not. I am happy as a traveller.

Randomly, the last batch of pictures, in the order I have saved them.

I love, and miss, the sea. This K + Anchor.

This is I have coincidentally labelled Sea Dress.

Shark fin.

Rabbit. I have a tattoo of, but not the same as this.

Spent hours trying to find a close up of this, so that I could - yes - print a high res version and hang it in my house.

Beatles references. How cool.

Blood mouth.

Blood mouth again. ‘Lupus Love Story’, manuscript in progress, tonally and colour-ly, like this. With wolves.

Snow sings

It sounds like she is saying putang ;) hahaha.


In case you don’t know definition

Hipster Snow White. Don’t know if I would be friends with her, she looks a bit snarky. Sort of “told you I’d send back that grass-shake if it wasn’t made from mid-winter Siberian roots” and then all her friends laugh.

Hahah. Anyway. Happy August, spring is on her way :) x

Attempting to write a “no mention of race” novel set in South Africa

Currently, attempting to write a no mention of race novel set partly in South Africa.

Benetton, perpetuating hideous stereotypes since 1982.

… I don’t want to add indicators in because it re-positions your text as non-global. Into a category. Truly.

And currently I just feel like writing about a bunch of people whose otherness is illness/madness, not race …. and that, as mentioned, weirdly, makes everyone sound white.

The solution is to accept that South Africa is a character in my MS and all else will flow from that. Fuck it. Write about race, properly. Take it back - global people have constructed race. Someone has to start the de-construct ….

Random Update

I am currently ….

Studying for an exam (the one where I know nothing)

Daydreaming about visiting my mom in Antigua and taste-testing new recipes (Yip. Antigua is in the Caribbean. And yip, my mom cooks for people for a living).

Wondering what does an overdraft really-eally mean - like can I buy new winter pyjamas, seeing as allll of my old ones are absolutely goners

Wondering why being a student relegates one to the land of poor, if aforementioned student is still available for freelance

Under Rose

Marvelling (marvelling) at the power of intention: as soon as I breathed a sigh of relief that i would now be fully available for freelance work (class has finished), my fn phone started ringing

Wondering why my love life is far more erratic and less dependable than this

Wondering if I am so poor — I am - how much each flake of Maldon salt (that I toss n crush around w wild abandon) actually costs. I have now taken to picking up these shards and returning them to their box

Wondering more about families that are combined talents

Wondering when I can do my kitchen

And who my housemate will be - I am on the look. Friends have been hired as committee members, as my previous experiences (all years of attempts, on and off) have been largely disastrous

Wondering why the moon .. why the moon …

Why The Moon

Wondering about friends - and changes as one ages - but why? And how I wish everyone could stay together for ever, but also realising that within 24 hours and the 7 days … the patterns that repeat are the patterns that are …..

Now I Know Nothing

Oh, how proud I was of myself. Knowing theories of histories and the readings of the philosophies and and and all that. Now, I am doing history-history. Of the Rural Transformation type. And I know nothing. And I can’t even seem to do enough reading to know very much at all. And in these essays… not a time for projection. An order of facts. A push for a referenced chosen idea. But I can’t seem to find the facts. Oi. So I can’t back my idea up.

Returns to writing new literary fiction novel where can do anything one wants and no need to back it up wipes brow with relief and smiles

Strange Days Indeed

The Oculus Rift. Someone should be fired for coming up with that name. Copywriting is a sacred art that should not be assigned to techgeeks. Although, Strange Days did call theirs SQUID…. Equally not good.

Strange Days, directed by Kathryn Bigelow.

A cyperpunk sci-fi thriller. 1995. But of course.

The reality: white guys wearing the Oculus Rift

Juliette Lewis can hardly wait.

Original by PJ Harvey.

Do you want to know the history of Island Records? Next time ;)

Whose look is based on …

Patti Smith.


Kathryn Bigelow also did The Hurt Locker and Zero Dark Thirty. While I have tried to watch it quite a few times, I can’t get thru the first torture scenes.

The movie is based on this:

THE HUNT FORGERONIMO is one of the best pieces of journalism I have ever read in my entire life. I read it while in Mexico, while in the car, then suntanning, then family went to eat and drink and I carried on reading. I now associate this story with a Wall-tiled courtyard, one giant potted cactus, an azure pool and an equally square blue roof that plated the courtyard sky.

Remember, Juliette Lewis was Born Bad.

Next week,

the evolution of Woody Harellson and “that” grade in True Detective.

Why the nostalgia for the alcoholic writers?

Why the nostalgia? So many books being written and movies, shot in sepia-tinted sighs, and even infographics and recipe books. And LOTS of blogs. Show me the very, very sober editors who had to deal with these writers. (I am not sourcing today, as I am trying to actually-really finish my next book*. Sourcing takes ages. Go Google. Asterisk, see below).

Fitzegerald. If you want to know the actual pain of this affliction, read Tender is the Night and The Beautiful and the Damned.

Zelda: crazy. Francis: drunk.

And please, Serena of Gossip Girl, your Beautiful and the Damned bon mots. Shame on you.

Just in case you missed the explicit references to the book, in Season 5 Serena van der Woodsen will now try to pick up a lowly screenplay researcher working on the adaption of The Beautiful and the Damned. And she will then get a job on set.

Here is Hemingway. I haven’t back-checked this, but here a quote and pic lifted from this article.

“Jeezus Christ! Have you ever heard of anyone who drank while he worked? You’re thinking of Faulkner. He does sometimes – and I can tell right in the middle of a page when he’s had his first one. Besides, who in hell would mix more than one martini at a time?”

Here is the only piece I am finding for you. It has a sober ending.

Slightly different topic:

Hannah on Girls, committing the first act of the burgeoning writer. An outright lie to see how the story works. End of Episode 4.


I think it’s interesting because Lena/Hannah surely must divide now. It’s a rather horrendous scene, with a slow focus pull and close up on her face, you can see her trying out these words and starting to actually believe them. Tho, one of the recurring jokes of the series is the “e-book deal” joke. No capital output, no risks, and not fiction - the “voice of a generation”, i.e. self-obsessed and insular, not committed to paper. Apt. The essay writer with so little actual substance in life, that there is no fiction … Think on it. Until then:

[Insert Gossip Girl voice ] Ex-Oh. Ex-Oh.

(Asterisk: Oh, you’d like to know the name of my, ahem, third novel? Anna Peters Learns to Cook. Not literary fiction. At all. I am being serious).

A City Stockbroker

Have you seen the Wolf Of Wall Street? It’s great, a proper story of excess. And a good look at narcissism. A damnation I don’t ever use colloquially - real narcissists are hideous. The best version of the Narcissus myth is when he tries to drink himself - his reflection - it’s unrequited love, the self bending back, refraction, etc. A note of warning to the current myth and promotion of the idea of self-fulfillment, individualism, of me, me, me.

Echo included. Poor thing. Narcissus is supposed be asexual …

Dali’s version.

Jordan Belfort wrote a book (of course he did) about himself. That did brilliantly. The majority of reviews were scathing - and the reviewers were appalled and mesmerised.

In true style, the real Jordan Belfort thinks that the story redeems him …. He also said that he got an actual sympathetic high watching “himself” snort cocaine. No, Jordi. That’s Leonardo Di Caprio, Hollywood’s darling.


The art direction is fantastic. Oh, and the Matthew McConaughy tribal-chest-beat was improvised by Matthew himself, informing a very thematic moment at the end (conceptually, almost the entire point of the film).

Here is a piece on Leo, from the Esquire features on actually famous men. Same series: here’s Matt Damon getting drunk and telling stories about stars more / less famous than himself.

And - ahem - now for something completely different: The Brit version in “The Dull Life of a City Stockbroker”. (If you didn’t get the ref … then you should immediately apple-click out of here and watch The Monty Python channel.

Oh. All right. If you haven’t left - the parrot sketch.

Or this rumination on words like woody.

Rarther amusing.