But the story doesn’t end there — or rather it doesn’t begin there. These two paper sculptures are only the most recent gifts left anonymously to Edinburgh-based arts groups throughout the year. The Scottish Poetry Library, the National Library of Scotland, the independent Filmhouse cinema, and the Scottish Storytelling Centre have all found themselves surprised and delighted recipients of these beautiful artworks. Wander over here for full details and photos.

My favourite is possibly the gramophone and a coffin ensemble (from the National Library) which was sculpted from a copy of Exit Music by Ian Rankin. The attached handwritten note  reads, “For @natlibscot – A gift in support of libraries, books, words, ideas….. (& against their exit)”.

It’s a small but delicious mystery. Of course, part of me is dying to know the full story — who the artist is, why they are making and leaving these sculptures, what they plan to do in the future — but most of me will be quite content to have those questions remained unanswered, and somewhat saddened should all be revealed. For all the wonders of our click-to-know-more, information-saturated age, there is a dearth of mystery, a scarcity of cracks and unexplored crevices in which the seeds of imagination may take root and flourish and give off seeds of their own. We need the what ifs and the why on earths and the who can it bes. We need them like we need oxygen.

So thank you, unknown sculptor of books. Thank you for sending my mind down a series of whimsical paths this morning when I read about your exploits. Thank you for the thousand and one stories my imagination spun after witnessing the fruits of yours. May your penknife never dull; may your creativity bloom ever bright.

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I love this photo for many reasons. It is old — the actual card-mounted print we have is faded and chipped, with the surface flaking off here and there — and seeing all those grim, unsmiling faces reminds me of just what a serious business photography once was. And time-consuming: look at those couple of blurred babes who simply could not sit still enough for the time it took the shutter to close.

But my very favourite part of this photograph is the little head peeking out from inside the building that forms the backdrop. (You’ll probably need to click on the image and bring it up full-size in order to make him or her out.) We have no idea who this early 20th Century photobomber is — she or he is not mentioned in the accompanying document that names the members of the family pictured — but I’m very pleased to see that the solemnity of the occasion was maintained. There were no cheesy grins, crossed eyes or cheeky rabbit ears from this interloper!

I do wonder who it is, though. A disgraced black sheep determined to get in on the family portrait no matter what? A farm worker or unrelated visitor intent on seeing their image preserved for posterity? At this late date it will likely be impossible to ever find a name to match that half-concealed face. But, almost one hundred years later, she or he is still there. Still being noticed and pondered and smiled over well into the next century.

Job well done, young photobomber. Job well done!

Last night my beloved and I braved the unexpectedly wild weather to trek into the city and catch Adalita Srsen (formerly of Magic Dirt) touring her self-titled solo album. I’ve seen Magic Dirt perform a few times over the years and on each occasion — as with last night — I found myself initially startled by how physically slight Adalita seems. Because in my head she’s immense, tall and broad-shouldered and imposing. In my head, she towers. Then she starts to sing, and to coax those brash and powerful chords from her guitar, and she becomes exactly the woman I remember. And I fall in love all over again.

Something has caught me between here and the outside . . .

The show last night was amazing. Stark and strong and richly emotional, it was part tribute to Dean Turner — Magic Dirt bassist, best friend and co-producer of Adalita’s debut album, who died from cancer in 2009 — and part turning point. Because it was undoubtedly Adalita’s music — and possibly a large chunk of her soul as well — that was being showcased at The Toff. Standouts for me were “Perfection”, “Going Down”, “The Repairer” and “Good Girl” (with support act, Amaya Laucirica, providing accompaniment on vocals and acoustic guitar).

Oh look at my halo, it sits at my feet like a beautiful dog . . .

The songs from her new album are powerful, and personal, relying on little more than a guitar and Adalita’s distinctive vocals for impact. I’ve had it playing for most of the afternoon and don’t think I’ll be tiring of it any time soon. For such an essentially minimalist album, there are new depths and fresh barbs to be discovered with each listen. And, of course, each listen brings back images and memories of Adalita on stage last night: black-shadowed eyes and sharp chin tilted up to the mic, eloquent hands working her guitar for all it’s worth, that smile still a little nervous even after all these years rocking a crowd, and that voice, that voice, that voice.

Thank you, Adalita. May your star shine ever brighter.

For the curious, Andrew Watt provides a fantastic review of Adalita, which does the album far better justice than my musically-challenged vocabulary ever could. And here’s the music video for Hot Air, the debut single. Enjoy.

Galactic Suburbia

A podcast of crunchy awesomeness, hosted by Alisa Krasnostein (Perth), Tansy Rayner Roberts (Hobart) and Alex Pierce (Melbourne). Lots of news, chat and incisive critical analysis of all things speculative fiction, with a feminist bent. Galactic Suburbia celebrated their 1st Birthday last week — there was cake! — and have announced the impending birth of a new sister podcast, Galactic Chat, which will focus on interviews with (mostly Australian) writers. Nom nom nom.

Súnas

This four-piece Celtic folk band are based in Brisbane and have just released a gorgeous new album, Celtic Road, through ABC Music. Stunningly beautiful music which has enjoyed regular rotation in our home — it’s playing as I type this post, in fact. I was fortunate enough to have Súnas play at my wedding last year and their stripped back, somewhat fragile cover of “Lovesong” never fails to catch at my heart. I truly love this album and hope it does amazingly well for them.

Treme

A new drama series from HBO which premiered last year, Treme is set in immediate post-Katrina New Orleans and follows the paths of several residents as they try to rebuild their lives and their city with varying degrees of success. Beautifully shot and scripted, the acting is impeccable and the storylines are understated and subtle, wound through with loss, grief, anger and joy. It’s a remarkable show, veering skillfully away from melodrama and the all-too-common aethetics of disaster-porn, to present a community of people who are neither saints nor sinners, but merely human. The second season is currently in production — I can’t wait to see it.

Reasoning with Vampires

Fast becoming my favourite online diversion, this blog is one young woman’s systematic critique of the Twilight Saga (she’s in the middle of New Moon right now). Not only is it smart and funny and extremely well presented, it’s critical in the true sense of the word. Dana’s project involves the analysis of language, character, plot and style on both a macro and micro level — it’s not just a bitch-fest about Twilight, although occasional snarkiness does creep in. Reasoning with Vampires is both an incredibly useful guide to Not Writing Badly as well as a concise critique of problematic literary and cultural tropes. Bite-size brain food with side serving of snark. Delicious!

Collapsed buildings and debris along Manchester Street in Christchurch. Photo by Martin Hunter/Getty Images

In terms of natural disasters, Australians have seen a truly horrendous start to 2011 and now we watch as our friends and neighbours — and often family members — across the Tasman battle through the aftermath of yet another. Our very best thoughts and wishes are most certainly with them.

If you are in a position to help out financially, the New Zealand Red Cross will be posting details of an official earthquake appeal on their website tomorrow and Westpac Bank has already set one up, with all donations to be directed to the Salvation Army.

I’m tempted to remark that 2011 can surely — only — get better from here on in, but the fates are fickle and always have their ears open …

Flash flooding at Windsor Train Station

The above image feels somewhat surreal to me.  A train station in Melbourne’s inner suburbs, the sunken tracks between its platforms now transformed into a muddy canal. Yesterday and overnight, torrential rain in the wake of tropical cyclones Yasi and Anthony caused flashing flooding in parts of Melbourne and throughout regional Victoria. And there’s more rain on the way. We’re lucky, perched safe and dry in our house on a hill in the suburb of Mount Waverley, but a few nearby friends have had their homes partially flooded.

I shudder to think of the house we were in living in at this time last year, with its backyard that turned into a wading pool after even a modest downpour and the blocked driveway drain that always threatened to spill accumulated rainwater into the garage unless you went out and swept it away with a broom at regular intervals. The garage that would have had all my freshly-relocated husband’s books still stacked in cardboard boxes because we didn’t have room for them inside. We only moved out of that house, and into this one, because it was being demolished.

So, yes, we’re very lucky.

My thoughts and best wishes go out to those who are facing clean-ups and devastation in the wake of the storms that seem to have pummelled just about all of Australia this summer, especially those up in Queensland and down here in Victoria who have borne the brunt of it. It’s been a truly awful start to the year. Here’s hoping it gets better.

If you are able, please consider contributing to the Queensland Premier’s Disaster Relief Appeal and/or the Red Cross Victorian Flood Appeal.

Unless, of course, you’ve already thrown all your spare pennies at Tony Abbott’s campaign against the federal government’s Flood Levy. Nice one, Mr Abbott. Glad to see the Liberal Party has its priorities in order.

(click to enlarge)

That was the extent of the post. Two paragraphs which read simply:

A resident of north Queensland has just called into Sydney radio to say the roof of their cubby house was blown off during Cyclone Yasi.

Also, reports of garage doors being battered. Some poles are down. Palm trees have of course lost fronds.

Not being familiar with Media Diary, it took me a minute to realise that it actually was, essentially, a blog post on a news site. My first reaction was that I had been directed to some facetious comment made by someone in response to a news article. Then it took me a minute or two more to parse it. Was it a bad joke being made by the writer? Was it actual reporting of someone else’s bad joke? Combine the headline (“Much ado” as in “much ado about nothing“) with the absolute lack of contextual framing, it was hard not to take it as a rather tasteless and heartless comment on the fact that the damage caused by Tropical Cyclone Yasi was not as extensive as it could have been.

I wasn’t the only one who read those two short paragraphs as a bad joke by a Sydney journo at the expense of Queenslanders. Greg Jericho wrote a furious and impassioned rebuttal. Twitter was filled with retweets and comments (some of them apparently quite vicious). My normally stoic husband, who lived in Queensland his entire life until I dragged him down to Melbourne late in 2009, went to bed fuming after composing two posts of his own and writing emails of complaint to the Australian and to Overington herself.

Today, the same link that would have taken you to the screenshot above shows a quite different page. You can click on that link now, but I’m also screenshotting this new version here because . . . well . . . who knows what might be there tomorrow:

(click to enlarge)

As you can see, Overington has “updated” her page.  True, she does flag this at the very top by beginning with the word “UPDATE” but, hang on, what exactly is it updating? The original post — those two paragraphs which upset so many people — now appear to have been completely removed. Oh, wait, I see what’s she done. There they are, italicised and re-quoted in the latter half of what essentially amounts to a brand new article, re-contextualised by self-quoted tweets demonstrating how much Overington did actually care about those in Yasi’s path, and finally a clarification of what those two paragraphs were about:

People were calling talkback radio in Sydney, and what they were saying seemed to me to be the best, the most amazing possible news: a roof off a cubby house, palm fronds down, and so forth.

So it appears that it wasn’t a tasteless joke made by anyone, but actual reporting of actual calls to radio that Overington heard and was heartened by and felt the need to share on Media Diary. For now, let’s leave aside the fact that the post was written shortly after 9am, when it could be argued that it may have been too early to draw such a conclusion. Let’s not also point out too vociferously that it might have been the people least affected by Yasi — those not searching for missing loved ones perhaps, or sorting through the rubble of their demolished houses, or surveying devastated farms — who had time to make calls to Sydney radio.

For now, let’s just consider that Overington and/or The Australian obviously realised that the original article was being ill-received. That people were angered and upset, and that the later expressed intention Overington had in writing those words had been completely lost in translation. Instead of leaving her original post as it was and appending an update to explain the context of her words, she effectively erased her original post in the problematic form in which it had been published. No one coming into this issue late will be able actually see the original artifact that became the subject of so much inflamed discussion (save for cache-mining and screenshots, of course). Self-quoting your post in a fresh article that replaces it and recontextualises it, is not even in the same ballpark. If this was print media, it would be akin to Overington knocking on the door of everyone who bought The Australian that day, handing them an errata sheet and standing over their shoulder while they pasted it on top of what was originally printed — whether they’d had time to read the original or not.

With a print edition, of course, this is merely a thought exercise. The problem with online publication is that it can be done, quite literally, with the click of a mouse. And that’s precisely what makes this an extremely significant issue. The Australian is a news site. They have a responsibility to maintain an open and transparent public record of the news and commentary they report, as well as to conserve the context of cultural artifacts — and that includes daily news diaries/blog/comments, no matter how flippant, transitory or minor such artifacts might seem to be at the time. Retractions, clarifications and apologies are an important part of journalism — but making the object of your retraction, clarification or apology disappear from the public record is not.

This is highly questionable behaviour for any journalist or media outlet. It undermines our trust. The information we have today might not be the same as what someone else saw yesterday, and what we talk about this afternoon might seem nonsensical to someone reading it tomorrow when they no longer have access to the same information. You expect this to happen on a private blog — although when private blogs become sites/sources of public conversation, then the ethics of revision and redaction also become more complicated — but on a news website? To me, that is crossing a very clearly-drawn line.

Finally, I will also note that there is not even the whiff of an apology to be found within Overington’s revamped article. There is a lot of self-defence – but I really do care! here, look at all my tweets! – a smattering of disbelief  — how can you think I would be so callous and ghoulish! — as well as the contextual clarification — someone really did call the radio! I just wanted to share the amazing news! — and that’s pretty much it. There is no acknowledgment of that fact her original article upset a lot of people — she addresses just one person, Greg Jericho, and in a particular rather than a representational sense — and there is no certainly no feeling of culpability for an article poorly written and open to obvious and understandable misinterpretation. In fact, the only person Overington seems to feel has been wounded here is herself, having been “saddened” by what Jericho said about her.

It’s disheartening to see people unable to make a simple apology for fear of, what? Losing face? Admitting that you make mistakes and are occasionally guilty of acting in haste or in error?

Maybe now is also a good time to note that, as alluded to at the end of Overington’s updated post, Greg Jericho has since written a lengthy reflection of his own blog post in which he apologises for its tone and acknowledges it was a little over the top. The manner in which he expressed his reaction, that is; not the reaction itself and not his interpretation of Overington’s original post:

But the more I thought about it, the more I knew I had missed the mark. Not by much. It isn’t so much what I wrote about was wrong, but the way I went about it.

It’s an excellent piece of self-analysis on the part of a blogger and well worth reading. More importantly, Jericho did not remove, edit or replace his original post. It remains within its original context, and you can still read it in its entirety. The only alteration is the addition of brief updates, appended clearly at the end: an apology and a note about the future moderation of comments (seems things got a little heated over there as well).

Now that’s what I call online integrity.

Needless to say, I didn’t finish the reading. The young man came around after a couple of minutes and was perfectly fine, if a little embarrassed. During the impromptus intermission, during which some very decent wine was served, three women crowded over to me to ask how the piece ended. “We have to know what happens!” Later, I chatted with a man who confided that he usually didn’t read that kind of thing, but that he found himself completely engrossed by my reading. So, I guess it all went well. You know, apart from making people pass out.

Me and Chuck Palahniuk, who knew?

In other news, Mother and Father Blackbird have both been working very hard the last couple of days, flying to and fro with food for the new babies. I can’t see them from my vantage, but I’m thinking of setting up at a ladder at a respectable distance just to have a squizz. I’ll wait a couple more days until the babies are older and I am perhaps at less risk from being divebombed from a justifiably irate Father Blackbird. Here are a couple of photos of the industrious pair. I do believe that Father Blackbird is giving me the evil eye!

Mother Blackbird

Father Blackbird

Next Sunday is Halloween! It’s also my birthday! Double Huzzah!

Fittingly, I’ll be at Dymocks Southland for their Halloween HorrorCon on the 31st, eating too much sugar and signing books along with four other might fine local authors of dark fiction — Alan Baxter, Bruce Kaplan, Bob Franklin and the dashingly handsome Jason Nahrung. Come along and say Boo!

Date:  Sunday, 31st October 2010
Time:  12.00 noon – 1pm (approx)
Address:  Dymocks Southland, 3067 Westfield Shopping Centre, Cheltenham, VIC

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For those in the mood for a night of spooky Q&A, Continuum 7 is hosting a Halloween Trivia Night next Saturday with none other than the fabulously vampiric Narelle Harris as Inquizator. Costumes are optional but there will be lots of yummy prizes, so don’t be shy about getting your Halloween groove on.

Date: Saturday 30th October
Time: 8pm
Where: Brian Boru Function Room @ The Celtic Club, 316-320 Queen Street, Melbourne
Cost of Entry: $5

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The Guardian.co.uk  published their Top 25 Horror Films this past week. It’s not exactly the list I would make, were I in the habit of making such lists — The Hunger is missing for a start — but it’s a fine collections of films nevertheless. There’s a few classics on there I keep meaning to track down — Peeping Tom, Don’t Look Now, Les Diaboliques — so it’s also a timely prompt. Good the see the beautiful Swedish film, Let the Right One In, making it into the top ten.

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Lastly, here’s an interesting factoid for you: October 2010 has 5 Fridays, 5 Saturdays and 5 Sundays — all in one month. Mathematically, this only happens once in 823 years. Such things amuse me.

ETA: Sadly, this last is not true. In fact, the last time this happened in October was 2004 (six years ago) and the next time it will happen is 2021 (11 years from now). Thanks to Andrew McKiernan for pointing this out for the benefit of a Kirstyn too lazy to google . . .

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Evil Currawong

The thing is, I should love Currawongs. I should be on their side. They’re big black birds, ever so distantly related to ravens — an ever so distant relation which definitely shows in their general mien — with bright yellow eyes and a penchant for falling with clumsy grace through the branches of trees. They are also native to Australia, and a protected species at that. I am a Friend of the Crows. I should lurve Currawongs.

But if you’ve been reading this blog, you’ll remember that a pair of Blackbirds have taken up residence above one of our courtyard doors. Right opposite my office where I sit for much of the day. I watched Mother Blackbird and Father Blackbird build their nest from scratch, with twigs and mud and bits of leaf and feather, over the course of just two days. I’ve watched Mother Blackbird sit on her nest for the past week, nestling down snug over her eggs, leaving only on brief forays for food and water.  I felt a bit dirty towards Father Blackbird for not sharing the load, until I spotted him doing perimeter duty on the roof, perching on the TV aerial for better vantage, and seeing off Noisy Miners who came too close.

In short, I’ve bonded with these damn Blackbirds. It doesn’t matter that they are an imported species. Or that my friend Elaine tells me they are considered a pest and a blight on the Australian environment. Or that we won’t be able to use the BBQ in our courtyard until the brood has fledged and flown. My heart cares not for such quibbles and refuses to listen to reason. They are my blackbirds.

Mother Blackbird

All of which goes to explains why I was most distressed to see a Currawong checking out the nest at lunchtime on Sunday. Mother Blackbird stared her down, and Father Blackbird performed aerial manoeuvres, but Currawongs are four times their size and have huge pointed beaks, and so the Blackbirds quickly deemed discretion to be the better part of valour and fled. I stood up by my glass door and waved my arms, and the Currawong promptly fled. After a while, Mother Blackbird came back, very cautiously, with much sounding out of the area before settling back into her nest.

Repeat three times. Currawong arrives, Mother Blackbird flees, Kirstyn shouts and claps her hands like a Mad Thing. Currawong retreats, Mother Blackbird returns, Kirstyn is stupidly proud.

The Currawong made no appearance yesterday and I thought perhaps I’d scared her away for good, but — alas — just in the last half hour she has come back for another attempt at egg-stealing. I did the arm-waving thing to shoo her away and I suspect the recently-fled Mother Black will be back shortly. As ridiculous as it sounds, it’s making me very anxious. I don’t want to leave the office to make myself lunch, which means I am taking my self-appointed guard duty far too seriously. I am also nervous about plans to see a movie on Saturday afternoon, because I won’t be here to protect the Family Blackbirds from the Evil Currawong (who, of course, is not evil at all but merely behaving according to her nature, as so she should).

It doesn’t matter that the Currawong is a native bird and that she probably has nestlings of her own to feed. These are my Blackbirds, damn it, and I was looking forward to seeing chicks hatch and fledge and take to wing. Sadly, it doesn’t appear that this will happen. I can’t be here all the time and Currawongs, it seems, are persistent. And, yes, the rational, reasonable, environmentally-conscious part of me will simply sigh and shrug and say, that’s nature for you, when I inevitably find the nest abandoned and Currawong bellies presumably filled.

But my stupid heart will weep. Because they are my Blackbirds.