Swimanog

Entries from November 2008

Nostalgia for Christmas – excerpt 3

November 30, 2008 · 1 Comment

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New York – with Christmas 2003 closing in.

Uncorrected Proof: Text – New York pp45-47

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 20
Got woken up by a phone call at eight in the morning! It was
Tony asking all these questions. Had to think for a moment: Tony
who? He asked what other titles were up and running? I mumbled
that I was still working on the list. Told him not to worry. He
recounted some guttersnipe crap about me being seen staggering all
over Manhattan three sheets to the wind. Without a coffee I had no
ready reply. I said he’d have his report on his table inside the week.
He said he wanted it today. I sighed, said okay. It calmed him down
but only for a moment. He went on about Menny this and Menny
that. Menny was always getting him into some war with someone or
another. We all better get ship shape or ship out, he said, that sort
of crap. He was angry about his boat being built somewhere, the
construction all behind schedule. I said, Do you know what time it
is? Every time Tony’s gets pissed about something he ends up talking
to me about the cost of his boats. We hung up on each other.

46 Louisiana Alba
I had breakfast in the room staring at the wall. Couldn’t bear to
look in the mirror. I think Menny wants to kill the imprint. Menny
and Tony want to kill each other but they talk on the phone all the
time. What have I gotten myself into? I went down to the gym and
sweated for an hour and a half on the treadmill. Had a sauna and
a facial. Don’t want to be outshone by a Bush twin. Called Dolon,
got his mobile answer machine again. I didn’t leave a message.
Something’s up. Lay around reading papers and magazines. New
design for the World Trade Center is 1776 feet tall. Was Ground
Zero something to do with the War of Independence? The Pope saw
Mel Gibson’s biblical epic The Passion and said it was ‘an accurate
portrayal of Jesus’s death.’ I mean, how does he know that? Was
he there? Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton have a new movie out,
Something’s Gotta Give. Not wrong there. Forecast says: clear skies
and a light wind, a cold night. Let’s hope we don’t have to spend too
much time outside. Dolon finally rang back at 5.30pm. He came
by in a Limo at 6.30pm with an open bottle of Bolly. He’s acting
all nice again. I couldn’t resist a couple of glasses heading uptown.
Could have easily turned round and ended up you know-where or
done it in the back of the car but there was no time. And anyway I
didn’t want my little black number all crushed. It took me the best
part of an hour to squeeze into it.

The Bush kids were at Nippon before us stashed in a private
room giggling about something. The place was empty then got really
packed. Kept looking at these scratches on Dolon’s neck. Did I put
them there? I talked a little too loudly about a documentary on
John Lennon that nobody else saw. By the time the lobster entrée
made an appearance and two more bottles of Bolly had come and
gone I was trading barbs with the twins about a certain political
unmentionable. By dessert I was in full flight banging on about
JFK, RFK, John Lennon and Princess Di, all those who got it square
and unfair.

UNCORRECTED PROOF 47
Forget about all the bloody phoney presidents, wars and elections,
I said. I was practically up on my chair. A couple of overcoats
appeared out of nowhere to adjudicate. Hadn’t noticed the security
detail before. Guess that’s their job, to blend in. Everything got to
be another blur after that. My dessert, Château whatever ended up
on the floor. Dolon took the head honchos aside. Must have slipped
them each a pony because they could not have been sweeter after
that, especially as we left. But the twins, sheesh, they acted like I
trod on their pet hamster or something. I made my abject apologies
outside, ’course none of what I said I meant blah blah.’ They were
so snooty. Think the whole deal with Dolon just got blown. What
an effing fracas. Rode in the cab like a door mouse back to the hotel.
As we parked Dolon said he had to go to Florida and practically
pushed me out onto the road. Caught my dress in the door as he
slammed it shut. Hey, I shouted but the Limo driver sped off. There
I was, my dress gone. I paid 200 smackers for that black rag, the
whole effing black lingerie effort I’d gone to for him on full view.
Jesus H. Christ it was freezing. I looked down at myself, at what was
left, and just started crying. The doorman was very nice about it
though. Couldn’t get the door open quick enough. Poor man got a
hand caught in the revolving door. Ouch.

There was this message for me from Tony. He now wants that
report before breakfast tomorrow. Turned on the TV. All is not well
in Barcelona. I started crying again, my mascara running all over my
face. Enric Bernat Fontlladosa the eighty-year old inventor of the
Chupa Chups lollipop is not well, probably won’t make it. So many
celebs loved that lolly with its Dali logo.

Categories: Blogroll · U.P. Photos + text · books · culture · fiction · literature · novel · postmodernism · publishing · reading · writing
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Another Voice for Nam Le

November 24, 2008 · 1 Comment

Louisiana Alba is the author of Uncorrected Proof, which I heart, so I asked if she would write something just for me (and you lit-lovers). Here ’tis:

Italians have a phrase: non mettere le mani avanti, don’t put your hands out in front (to prevent the fall you fear). Let the scholars sort out my fictions. I am trading here on memory and instinct alone, a dangerous line, I know, particularly as I was going to do a piece on Windschuttle and other historical fabrications. Do you know Windschuttle? Does anyone care? No? Then, I best leave him for another time.

Nam Le has just won the Dylan Thomas Prize. This is no small prize and no small feat, I said to myself, then realised I was staring at my own. My feet were the only feet in the room. I was intrigued though I confess I didn’t know Nam Le’s work before I went online and ordered the one copy of The Boat held by the British Library. The book of The Boat. The Boat in book form. It says a lot about the focus of readers in London that it hadn’t been snapped up already. After the Booker Prize shortlist was announced every copy of every book the BL had by every writer on the damn list was in use. Hell, what’s going on? I said at the time.

Nam Le, who is he? When no answers came I could interpret I webbed wider to find out more. I came upon: ‘Love and Honour and Pity and Pride and Compassion and Sacrifice’, from The Boat itself. I read the screen-printed story. Even in the twenty-first century I still find it hard to read fiction this way. Yet Nam Le had me hooked with his first words. The Boat had cast me a line. ‘LHPPCS’ is a fine and good story, as Hemingway might have said. I saw echoes, or imagined I did. Thom Jones’s an-American-in-Vietnam stories, what was Nam Le doing here, a parody of memoir technique developed by a writer come writing-teacher in an Iowa writing school? Many stylistic lines from many American short story writers crossed my eye-line, Le skilfully self-addressing the author, wannabe, manqué throughout.

Thom Jones is still on that Iowa program I believe. I have long admired his work and reference him in Uncorrected Proof. Judging by ‘LHPPCS’, I feel no less strongly about Nam Le’s capacities, finding the comments of praise I saw this morning true and right down to the last syllable. Hemingway is an apt voice to mention as well, I suspect, for what happens at the end of ‘LHPPCS’ happens to the Hemingwayequestrian character in The Garden of Eden as well – the writing and story of both characters ending up…No, I can’t say it either.

Let me be frank or… Nam Le. This writing strikes more than one chord, literary and life chords. When I first left Australia, after university and film school, my first assignment abroad was to film a boat full of ex-Vietnamese hitting land in southern Thailand. Pure fate. It was only the second time I had professionally put an Eclair 16mm camera up on my shoulder, only the second time I had used one live full-stop.  As I clambered about the decks of beached boats, sweat running in my eyes, the stench of summer in the Gulf of Thailand all around, somehow I kept the excitement of the waving forms motoring towards me in focus, somehow I maintained the other arrivees close-by in frame, somehow I didn’t end up in that murky Thai seaside drink all sides up. All along I had no idea I would revisit this plot and theme several times in my life.

I move on to Hong Kong filming and producing two more films on escapees from a hell on wheels inside Vietnam, to a fate far worse than the Thai camps, if my olfactory memory of the warehouses along Hong Kong’s Pearl Harbour serves me well. My fourth and last experience is back in Sydney six years later, making a film for Special Broadcasting Service on a need some Vietnamese children developed for writing up their experiences. In a Strange Land, one girl titled her poem, or was it tilted, living out a nightmarish late childhood horror that was Cabramatta, or as some Australians casually called it back then, Vietnamatta. Reading Nam Le brings it all back.

What is Nam Le’s ‘LHPPCS’ all about then? Writing in Iowa? Growing up in Australia? Relationships? Remembering Mum? Revisiting or leaving Vietnam behind? Getting onto livable terms with Dad? Memory in ‘Love and Honour and Pity and Pride and Compassion and Sacrifice’ is a wonderfully cruel trick. We live and die by it along with his character in the same instant. Nam Le’s memoir, the memory of his life’s truths as laid out in fiction, is an examination of a fictionalised ‘ex-Boat person’ narrated in such an unadorned air of truth that if the other stories in the collection are even half as good, then I know in truth I am in for even more of this rare treat.

Can’t wait to see what she says after reading the rest! – LM

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Small versus Big, and small must win

November 3, 2008 · Leave a Comment

ElephantEars Press, my publisher in Hackney, a small, new and independent publishing press dedicated to bringing you good literature, fiction and non-fiction, at fair prices, is now offering FREE post and packing to ANYWHERE in the world.

These holidays ElephantEars Press wants to give readers a real and true deal.

Lately, I have been following Amazon’s attempt to monopolize Print On Demand, to force independent publishers to accept Amazon on terms designed to crush the life out of the independent publishers and booksellers. It’s a disgrace – Amazon only got where it is because readers like you and me helped them become a force. We supported them in the early days because we wanted diversity, because we believed they were for us. Not anymore they aint!

Amazon wants to monopolize bookselling and print on demand publishing. They want to to kill off publishing independents and consumer independence. Don’t let them. Buy from small independent presses like ElephantEars. Support small and ignore the big homogenizers of creative output.

For this holiday, for your gifts – Buy from the small dedicated publishers like ElephantEars Press determined to bring to you reading quality for your pound, dollar, and euro

SUPPORT SMALL against BIG.

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