Reading, 7

This session started while I was in hospital. Trying for easy reading matter. Easy to put down when necessary, for example to have a blood test done, or connect me to the IV.

My reading buddy brought me a book that he had trouble with and that I put aside after only one chapter, no way was I going to be able to read that in a scene where I needed to interact with maybe fifty people a day.

By day three I was hungering for anything at all to read. I’d forgotten to bring my tablet, and I’d been down to the kiosk in the downstairs lobby twice, and that had only magazines and newspapers available. Over two days, I bought two dailies of a right-wing newspaper, read them from cover to cover and felt like a foreigner.

Then, during one of my afternoon perambulations on the ward, I saw and remembered the existence of a lounge or two in each ward in that hospital, where visitors could withdraw to wait out procedures on their loved ones, and that there often were a couple of books.

Day three I sallied out and found a book that I normally wouldn’t read in a pink fit but needs must, as the saying is. A Readers’ Digest Condensed Book, in the new century renamed Readers Digest Select Editions. Still ongoing, I was amazed.

These are collections of “Popular, bestselling novels condensed to remove subplots or descriptions without altering the author’s style or story,” according to Reddit users and eBay sellers, quoted by Google’s AI. Hence me not reading them in a pink fit. However, by the 2020s I’m suspecting, the novellas could be being written purposely for the series. The four stories I read certainly seemed so.

According to Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reader%27s_Digest_Select_Editions
I probably read

Book 18 … Volume 395 – #6 – September 2023 with • The Hunter – Jennifer Herrer • Hello Stranger – Katherine Center • Play the Fool – Lina Chern and • The Last Lifeboat – Hazel Gaynor

And because I was reading to pass the time, I have no clear memory of what all four stories were about except that one of them was about a bunch of newly-outed characters making the Titanic trip. By ‘newly outed’ I mean these people have not before featured in any of the Titanic fiction. And that they are probably completely fictional fictions. “IE did not appear in the passenger lists.” (Authorial note)

The other one I have some memory of is Hello Stranger, a thriller about a woman who has lost her memory. As this was the last story I read, I recall it best and it was good enough, in my opinion, not to give out any spoilers.

The remaining two stories? Can’t recall a word.

— — — —

After four nights, the days between, the two half-days fore and aft, and bells bells bells every minute of the night, I returned home. Blessed relief, with no bells clamoring all night I slept like a young thing.

Returned home with a prescription for another five days of antibiotics that had now to be taken by mouth, of course. And don’t bother with the probiotics yet was the word. The first couple of days I was quite well, getting stuck into the clean-up, and even managing to attend the weekly art class on Thursday morning.

By the Friday nausea began to rule. All the jobs I had begun slid into the background. There’s a pile of washed Duplo in front of me, another pile drying on the balcony. The grandkids have outgrown it, but some will still be useful to me for mountain-building. All of it needing sorting and I haven’t washed the plastic tubs yet.

Then there’s the laundry, one load ready to be folded, one load still in the washing machine, and another pile growing in a corner of the bathroom. Then there are the three days worth of dishes to be washed. Then … then …

I looked at my bookshelves, found something I hadn’t read yet, and promised myself time would pass. Five doses to go.

Book 19 … My Sister Rosa by Justine Larbalestier, published in 2016 by Allen and Unwin.

I picked this book up in the library in the village community center some time ago. The back cover promised me edge-of-my-seat reading and it was not wrong. I read it in one gulp, which took me till 1.30 A/M, and some time ago I’d sworn off that kind of read. Sleeping only about five hours does not agree with me these days. It’s like I’m hungover the whole next day.

Spending a bit of time at https://goodreadingmagazine.com.au/ about this one, reading reviews, I discovered that people either loved or hated the book. Also, that it’s classed as young adult fiction, which I just don’t see. Just because the POV character is a teenager does not necessarily make it a YA fiction.

Some readers thought the novel well researched, others thought it badly researched. I’m neutral about that. Just so long as the research doesn’t intrude into the reading experience I don’t mind what lengths writers go to get a readerly reality. I’ve paddled that sea myself, researching the ins and outs of surfing for my novel, Mongrel, for example. Body-surfing was the only kind of surfing I ever did and then only casually.

Some readers loved the supporting character, the ten-year-old psychopath, thinking her very realistic. Others thought her tricks were mere childishness. On that point I really don’t believe the average ten-year-old will try to talk a so-called friend into killing her twin for entertainment. People who thought that, I stopped respecting the minute I read their opinion.

Che, the older brother who told the story, was trying to be a normal teenager and not succeeding. Neither of the parents were ‘at home’, so to say, and his little sister became his responsibility. Of course in the past, it was normal for an eldest sibling to have the care of the younger brood. In my past it certainly was, and I often had three young kids trailing me. Nowadays, with families of only one or two kids it is much less common.

Book 20 … The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. Translated by Alan R Clarke. Originally published in 1988. The first English language edition in 1993. This copy is a 25th anniversay edition published in 2014, by Harper One an imprint of HarperCollins.

Its publishing history is complex. In 1993 my son was eight years old and I was a keen library reader and thrift store customer. That would be one of the reasons this book completely passed me by. That library was struggling a bit, new books few and far between, and thrift stores feature the old and remaindered. Nor was I in any reading clubs where people raved about it. Small country town. Not even a bookshop in those days.

Nor would I have been psychologically mature enough in that time to read it. I hadn’t yet started my writing studies, and the only hero’s journey I knew about, was me eking out a living. Thirty three years later–now–I read The Alchemist with joy. I recognized so much. The hero’s journey, yes. There’s been so much said about the hero’s journey in film, literature, how-to books and descriptive critiques, most people will be familiar with its concepts.

But also some of the Jungian concepts I’ve been studying for the past couple of years. The Personal Legend, for example. Do you know yours? I’m not yet so familiar with mine that I can talk about it in detail, though I’ve received a few clues from dreams. If you don’t yet journal your dreams, start now. I recommend it.

Then there’s The Soul of the World. I know that as the collective unconscious, but described much more poetically. There’s more. The plot of the recurrent dream of treasure in a far off place that returns you to your original place? A plot that I’ve read in a couple of recently published novels. It was an aha moment and me thinking, So this is where they got that!

Even the title. The Alchemist. The alchemist is a wise man. The last thing he said to the boy? “No matter what he does, every person on earth plays a central role in the history of the world. And normally he doesn’t know it.”

This seemingly simple little book gave me a lot to think about.

Links, 2

This pic had a complex beginning and I wish I could’ve listed the original artist. A friend visited a seaside art installation. He took many pictures without taking note of any artists or their details, and at home let some of them loose into the wilds of a well known art program. Representing krill in this pic. It was originally 9 MB, and 75 cm wide. Cut that down to 15 cm, and I might’ve been too stingy. My apologies.

Links, 1 …

That is, links between Mongrel, part 1 of the series and Meld, part 2. Ordinarily these might be called back-stories telling how various characters got to the point that they enter the story.

Though in this case, it’s the ongoing premise that needs more explanation than I can fit into the main tale. So I have recruited a group of supporting characters to tell their side of events, in the hope that they will then just slot you into the cycle.

This was a 500 word Flash Fiction try-out that describes Claire King’s secret project. If you’ve been reading long enough you’ll probably recognize the Dolphinate, who live in the Delta in Lodestar.

This little painting represents a bunch of new life in a petrie dish.

What Happened …

“Been home since yesterday” I wrote in a recent post. Today I’ve been home for five days. Sunday 22nd March my cat attacked me, in the early morning, on my way back from the bathroom when I was barely awake. Out of the blue, but something she had done four or five times before.

I blame myself. After caring for six successive cats previously in my life, as well as a dog, various poultry and a lamb, I believed a rescue cat would present no problems.

The fact that Moggy had been picked up of the streets and had spent 100 days in the shelter should’ve been a warning. I read that history on her hutch at the shelter and didn’t take in what that might mean. The fact that after all the paperwork was done and we said our goodbyes, the shelter’s staff said don’t bring her back … that should’ve been my second warning.

But what should I have done then, leave her sitting on the counter and demand my money back? I didn’t.

The first time she clawed and bit me was a few days in, when I picked her up to give her a cuddle. My whole left hand swelled up and that morning I was at the GP getting antibiotics and my hand dressed. Cured me of ever again trying to pick her up.

She did not allow me to pat or brush her. She scratched the furniture. She ripped up carpet. I trained her out of all those although patting and stroking her was always a dangerous move on my part. Having her sleep beside me sitting on the couch, laying so near she touched me with her back-end was as close as we got. Sometimes lately she allowed me to lay my arm over her back and just recently she allowed me to then scratch her under an ear.

In the day-times it seemed to me we were getting somewhere, me taming her, she training me.

Night times, she ruled the apartment except for my bedroom and the bathroom, both of which I shut her out of at night. I had to be so watchful all day I just wanted to relax at night. I wrote in my journal, then slept two or three times.

The short distance between the bedroom and bathroom was when she’d sometimes claw me, always at night or early in the morning, probably when she thought she should have food and I wanted to go back to bed. When she drew blood, I washed my wounds under running water, dressed them, and called them an unfortunate mistake on her part.

Some nights on my bathroom dash, I was aware and awake enough that I waved a towel at her or a shirt on a coathanger, both of which she respected as too weird for her to deal with. She would run off down the corridor.

Weeks would go by and I would forget to be watchful on those little trips. Lately I thought she had grown out of those measures. That she trusted me enough to know that she’d never go hungry. She’d become quite the heavy weight after all, and got plenty of food, was what I thought.

So Sunday 22nd March early a/m, she jumped me when I turned to go back into my bedroom, clawed me above my ankle and hissed! The hissing part was new and I was terrified! I nipped back into the bedroom, with information flashing through my mind, I’d be alright … I had antiseptic cream in the bedside drawer, cotton wool and sticky tape. The wound looked torn, a flap of skin—awful—I covered with everything I had at hand.

Wrong.

Should’ve called somebody for help then. An ambulance, maybe.

But. It was Sunday a/m and I was in the bedroom, would ambos even come into the flat knowing there was a feral animal in there? The whole thing would’ve escalated beyond what it was worth, in my opinion.

Naturally I did not sleep, feeling baled up, knew I was doing something wrong. Knew something had to change. I’d had Moggy for 20 months by then. I was getting older, more fragile and my skin was already thin. How many more times could I allow her to attack me like that?

I got up at 6.30 a/m, and after I fed the animal with her usual 20 kibbles in the usual way, washed my leg with a Wet One because the skin was torn and I didn’t dare to put it under running water, the pain alone would’ve caused me to pass out. At that time of morning I have very low blood sugar.

Anyway, didn’t hurt once I’d covered it with a large band-aid. Once again hoped for the best. Set to thinking how to manage the situation better.

Wrong.

Didn’t ask anybody for help. Could’ve called K, who would’ve taken me to ED. Thought I could last till Monday and see the GP. Which I did.

GP very unhappy with me. They cleaned wound and dressed it. Drew a circle around the infection, told me to go to ED if the infection went over the line. Put me on antibiotics. Then they put two elastic bandages over the whole lot, these were so tight that I knew if I took them off to see whether the infection expanded, I’d never be able to get them back on.

Monday night, W came to solve the problem of a feral animal which could not be taken back to the shelter. He took her away and I haven’t asked. Mea culpa.

The GP told me to come back on Friday but probably hoped I’d come to my senses and go to ED on Wednesday. I didn’t. I’d had to wait for an eye specialist appointment for four weeks already, I had a very sore right eye, I went to the appointment on Thursday. Went back to the GP on Friday.

The antibiotics hadn’t touched the infection. The whole thing was a pus-filled crater surrounded by a large angry tight red swelling. The GP angry though he did some digging in there and mopping up. With no local anesthetic so of course I flinched. He told me to go home, pack a bag, go to ED. I was by then angry with him because why no local? And why was he so squeamish? How did he even get through medical training?

I went to ED finally. They had a look, didn’t do any digging, put me on intravenous penicillin. Four nights. And sent me home with more antibiotics to take by mouth.

At this moment in time, Monday 6th of April, the wound has partially closed over, still a large band-aid. The antibiotics are now finished and here’s hoping the infection is gone. It’s been fourteen days.

Mongrel: 46, 47 and 48

Last three chapters. But not really THE END.

It was hard to figure out the cut-off point between Mongrel and Meld. In a way, the whole of Mongrel is Tardi’s backstory and set-up for his role in Meld.

I felt that, with at least the main character a familiar person, we might all be able to better understand the new scenario. Experience it through his senses, as it were. It was hard to write and it’ll be hard to understand. But I hope you’ll find it intriguing.

— — — —

I’ve seen most snakes in the wild, but never a death adder. Like most bush-walking Australians I was always on the look out for them. Very scary. I’ve known several people who thought they killed one, only for the animal to turn out to be a blue-tongue skink.

Image from https://wildlifeqld.com.au/common-death-adder/ Check out this link for all the variety of colors of death adders.

Reading, 6

Been home since yesterday and today assessing what I’ve been reading since last time I talked about books.

And that seems weeks ago. A lot has happened.

Book 15, Banks by Grantlee Kieza , published in 2020 by ABC Wave and HarperCollinsPublishers.

Though I’ve always been interested in Sir Joseph Banks and his plant discoveries in Australia, I had never read a biograpghy.

So was pleased to see this among the biographies in the Vista foyer. Started reading that night, full of vim and vigour.

My my! Did I get bogged down? I’ve seldom read a boggier book, such a disappointment. Kieza’s style is turgid, the first fifty pages are an unbroken list of namedroppings with numbers for endnotes. By page 50, there are 76 endnotes.

Normally, if a book doesn’t grab me by page 50, I give up. This time though, because it was about Banks I thought I should continue. After all, my thinking went, Banks himself is in the scene now. It isn’t just his friends and relatives tripping the stage.

On page 81 there is an interesting paragraph about the fitting out of the ship that was eventually to be named ‘Endeavour’. I must admit that here I appreciated the detail.

How a ship ninety eight feet long and twenty-nine feet and three inches wide could fit into it a crew of seventy, twenty scientists, dogs, cats, goats and poultry, is beyond belief.

The crew were alotted a space of fourteen inches wide for their hammocks. They’d have to swing top and tail, my reading buddy reminded me.

What I’m saying with these few facts … yes there are nuggets of gold in this book. They’re so far apart is the problem.

Book 16 The Difference Engine by William Gibson and Bruce Sterling. First published in 1990 by Victor Gollancz.

Started reading this when I hit another long slow chapter in Banks’ life.

The Difference Engine is a whole other kettle of fish. Fiction, of course, it’s said that with this story, Gibson and Sterling invented the cyberpunk genre.

Not a fast read either, but definitely interesting. The hold up here was the unusual terminology for what are normal concepts these days. So although you know you’re reading about a computer, it is called the difference engine.

The research done for this novel is astounding. Every kind of Victorianism is present and acounted for. Omnibuses, Hansom cabs, steam trains. Line-streamed aka stream-lined. China- hard platter of mud … many descriptions have been built using concepts right for the time.

The kind of story you want to read fast to see what happens next, but also slow to enjoy the richly described world. Quite a conundrum. I think probably in the goodness of time I will read it again.

After another couple of chapters of Banks, I picked up the so-called New Jack Reacher

Book 17, The Sentinel by Lee Child and Andrew Child. 2020 by The Bantam Press

I planned for this to be fast and thoughtless read. Pure relaxation. Didn’t turn out to be. The collaboration between these two gentlemen doesn’t work for me.

Lee Child’s normal style is spare and suspenseful. Andrew Child’s style slowed it down but not in a good way. Not by cranking up the suspense. Sentences are longer and sometimes there’s too much description.

I’m still supposedly reading Banks. Be hard to get back to it now. I might look for another biography about him

‘Condemned to Decide’

I loved reading this article right now when my cortex and lizard brain have been at odds with one another and I made the wrong decision about getting medical help for a cat scratch. And AI would’ve been no use whatever.

Am I mimetic or a stubborn fool? Anyway more on my adventures another time. There are such good ideas in here, I’ll be journalling them when I get home (from hospital).

Because the future is here already and when we have kids and grandkids we need to be able model these very important concepts.

An essay about agentic vs mimetic people, using your lizard brain, and why outsourcing your judgment to AI is a values problem before it’s a …

Condemned to Decide