Writing Time

There's a time some evenings for writing. It's that time when I should be asleep, but can't. When the stacks of magazines, novels and non-fiction I've got lying around on my to-absorb list hold no interest. When my day job hasn't ripped every desire to type from my fingers. When it's time for me to write.

Except I have no bloody idea what I want to write about.

When I first started writing there was a list of things I wanted to achieve as a writer.

Get an academic article published.
Get a newspaper article published.
Get an article in a magazine (that people actually pay for).
Sell a piece of fiction.
Sell a short story.
Sell a script for a graphic novel/comic.

So far I've hit one of those, with another possibly in the works, but with seeming diminishing likelyhood. Neil Gaiman was published at 23, and writing Sandman at 29. Warren Ellis was writing for Marvel at 26.

I know it's a bit daft to compare oneself to other authors, but it's still terrifying. By writing in a drudge job, I'm completely removing any desire I have to work beyond what I have to. I have a half-dozen little side projects that never go anywhere due to lack of time and energy.

My job has sapped two of my only useful hobbies: photography and writing.

I want to tell stories.
I want to show pictures.

Bugger this emo shit. I want to write, and at least that's what I'm doing.

This may be a time of flux for writers, but that also makes it a time of interesting opportunity. The fact that ebooks are actually selling. That writers can release bits and pieces for free online, if they're sensible. Asimov's may be fading, but Escape Pod has a freaking huge number of listeners.

Freelancing has this romantic appeal, given the current situation. It gives the most promise for riding out the current shufflings of written media, as real jobs are few and far between. Plus the ability to flit from one subject to another is a glorious one. But no insurance. Shitty pay. Would you believe freelancing jobs are being outsourced?

I was recently checking out a freelancing website, which included a writing section. Standard deal, writers try and place a low bid on a contract. Reading their posts, basic language skills seemed nearly non-existent. Then I looked at how much was being paid. 50 cents for 200 words. $200 a week from 20,000 words. That's fucking ludicrous! Of course, it's near to a living wage in South Asia.

But not here.

Toy cameras

So, Toy Cameras are making a significant resurgence. A visit to your local, neighbourhood, hipster hangout is bound to reveal Holgas, Dianas, Oktomats and Fish-eyes, and a massive resurgence in the popularity of film. Why are these cameras so popular? Because they were shitty. They aren't light proof, often don't focus properly, expose incorrectly, and the colours are all out of whack. They're creators of "happy accidents", of low-fi joy. They're distorted, grainy, and everything serious photographers avoided for years.

In other words, they're cellphone cameras. Sure cameras has fewer light leaks, but everything else is the same. Doesn't expose properly, trouble focusing, weird noise, tendency towards lens flares. Toy Cameras are just hip right now. Beat out the curve, make art with your shitty cellphone.

Magazines are dead. Long live magazines.

Print is dying. No, I'm not going to bother backing that up, I'm pretty sure we all know and realise that. Ad sales are down, magazines are rapidly dwindling to nothing, major newspapers are folding. Hell, the Rocky Mountain News is no longer in print, and the Boston Globe isn't looking too healthy.

Magazines are dying too, but not all of them. Because, it seems, the magazines that are vanishing are the ones that use their pages solely as a way to transmit information. Magazines like Cosmo, Time, Maxim, EGM and Wired all come out regularly, and use their pages to bring as much information (though I use the term loosely) as they can to their readers, and that's it. Because of this, the paper is usually as low quality as they can get away with, and so too is the writing and content. The problem with this is that all this information is available easier, cheaper and faster online.

The ones that are arising in their place, however, are fetish magazines. Not in the kinky sense (though there are those too), but in a more traditional manner, as objects of worship. This is the magazine as an Object in and of itself. These are magazines that you don't buy for what's in them, but rather to possess them. They are high quality, of inherently niche topic, and designed to be kept. You don't throw them away in the recycling a week after you get them, rather they're closer to art books. The message isn't in the medium, the medium is the message.

The two that spring to mind (though both are occasionally NSFW), are Coilhouse and Filament. Coilhouse is home to the weird and the wonderful. Each page is stunningly laid out on heavy stock paper, with gorgeous photography and illustrations. Even the advertisements are freakishly beautiful. Filament is a magazine of intelligence and male nudity aimed at "the female gaze". Once again, it doesn't come out very frequently, and it's an object to be purchased as a thing of beauty in its own right.

A wonderful historic example of this is the magazine Gentry, which was aimed squarely at the upper-class British male, and it even came with fabric samples woven in. Once again the importance was in the object itself, as a permanent Thing.

Another excellent example (though in fiction) is Jon Armstrong's novel Grey (available for free as an ebook here). The plot in the book is by all accounts mediocre, but it's worth reading just for the outfits. It is pure clothing porn in a way I can't even begin to explain. In the novel, the main character is a devotee of the magazine "Pure H".

Then she introduced me to Pure H and everything changed again. Published every other month, the magazine is one-half meter square and printed on the most luscious and expensive paper made. It is a joy to touch and hold. But the most extraordinary thing about the magazine is that one anonymous person produces it. Although I’d heard speculation about who he might be, I preferred to enjoy his art without worrying about identity. He photographed every photo. He wrote all the copy. And each issue was a complex puzzle to be savored and deciphered.

You know what? I love this trend. I love the idea of magazines that exists as an Object itself, more than its readily pirated contents. An Object of inherent value. Magazines are dead. Long live magazines.

Websites that need to exist but don't:

http://www.moviesinwhichsamuelljacksonsaysmotherfucker.com

Someone really needs to snatch this up.

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Flash Fiction: I watch the rising and falling of her chest

I watch the rising and falling of her chest. She doesn't know I'm awake. Her gown is sheer, and she's half-illuminated by the moon. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. Her breath is slow and shallow, and I am mesmerised by the ridge of her clavicle. The faintest shadow of breasts. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I stare at her, unable to sleep. I remember running my lips along her neck, my arms around her. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I remember early mornings, breakfasts in bed, and furtive liaisons under the covers. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I remember the taste of her lips. Her lips. Her lips. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I can't wait for her wake up, for her to be mine again. The ECG beeps. I watch the rising and falling of her chest.


This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.

I'm internet famous

When you Yahoo search for "Arthur Curry", I'm number 4 on the list. That's hilariously awesome!

EDIT: May 11, up to number 3!

My continuing fascination with scarification

Caution, all of the following links are NSFW, and will not be easy to take if you have a weak stomach.

Scarification intrigues me immensely. In terms of cultural precedent, it seems to sit where tattooing did 60-odd years ago. Where tattoos have become heavily co-opted by the mainstream, and taken to the level of irony, scarification remains entirely fringe. Like ink once was, it's the domain of the circus freak and weirdo. Proper scarification requires not only intense ability to accept, even revere, pain, the wounds have to be left to heal by their own power, so you can't touch the massive gaping cuts they leave. However, some more extreme people will deliberately slow healing in order to trigger the creation of extra scar tissue.

Scarification is one of the few things that can raise an instant gasp of pain/shock in me. Can you imagine the removal of that much skin? Some designs are gorgeously intricate, of metaphorical potency, and this one reminds me of nothing so much as Islamic architecture.

Keep in mind, all of these are done without anaesthesia. This is to some extent due due to the view that the pain is part of the process, but also the lack of legal anaesthetics due to the dubious status of the process. See, scarification is borderline illegal. It nears the line of surgery without any clinical benefit, undertaken by professionals without any formal training in the area, and occasionally questionable sterility. It is a procedure of the medical wastelands, the habit of freaks and geeks. And holy shit does it sometimes look beautiful.

While healing, it can look a little terrifying, but you cannot argue with some of the outcomes. Here's a sequence of healing process from start to finish: 1, 2, 3.

As you can no doubt tell, scarification produces an incredibly mixed reaction in me. Seeing the cuts makes me wince in pain, and the thought of getting it done is just about unfathomable in terms of the trauma it would produce. On the other hand, the product, both freshly cut and fully healed, is so beautiful that I find it astonishing. It really is something that I could never do, but I can admire.

The America Work Ethic

Being a BA geek, and spending a few semesters in the grips of Sociology, a lot of discussion at one point was devoted to the phenomenon of the Protestant Work Ethic, which apparently drives people of cold climates and miserable religion to work their asses for a heaven that they can't get into due to predestination (Luther was a loony). Today, this has morphed into the American Work Ethic, which is nothing so much as utterly fucking ludicrous. As a long time inhabitant of the south Pacific and inveterate slacker, I never pegged myself as one to have a job where I would work till 10pm about once a month, and the occasional weekend. I never imagined I would be the first person in the office every morning in order to get through everything that needed doing. And I certainly didn't expect to land in a place with a broken system of holidays.

Let me elaborate. At my job, we get 7 days of holiday scattered throughout the year. Just the big ones. Christmas, New Years, July 4, etc. No Easter Friday/Monday. No Boxing Day. We're expected to work at least 50 hour weeks. The pay is mediocre considering where I live.

Yet this is normal for America. Apparently this is standard corporate culture, even for a small company. You're meant to give over your whole life to the company it seems, and heaven help you if you want a personal life.

Perhaps this is how people get by in lands of shitty weather. Or maybe America is just that much more focussed on the corporation over the individual. I don't know. Apparently the only way to get a job that actually has a 40 hour work week and decent holidays is to work for the Government. How about that?

A German girl I work with and I occasionally take time to bitch about the lack of socialised health care, crappy employment law, and useless holidays offered. It seems the better pay offered by American corporations (as compared to NZ/AUS) is mostly due to them expecting you to work fucking ludicrous hours.

This ties into the school system to, in behaviour that is almost Japanese in its level of ludicrousness. Through primary and high school, kids time is strictly regimented between study, sports and extra-curricular activities. All in the attempt to get to a good college. At the Universities drug abuse is rampant. Prescription drugs, especially amphetamines and nootropics, seem to be required to get anywhere at university. Good lord, they're breeding soulless automatons. Yet those that rebel against the system inevitably end up as shiftless stoners and slackers it seems. Hell, even the postgraduate system is geared towards overwork, demanding that you attend classes while working on your PhD.

Work life balance, folks. It appears to be a myth here.

The Kiwi Institution of the Tea Room

When traveling across America, the most frequent food stop, at least in terms of zeitgeist, is undoubtedly the Diner. In New Zealand, it's the Tea Room. And where the US has good, but greasy, food served by tough old broads, the Tea Rooms are bastions of the under-whelming and rather disgusting.

You usually end up at one of these places as the only food option in a small town, or else are forced there due to the vagaries of trans-city transport. And they all look the same. The same fluorescent lighting, the same aging chairs, the same particle board counters, and worst of all, the same horrible food.

To start with are the triangle sandwiches, always white bread. Pickle and salami. Ham and cheese. Cheese and onion. Roast beef. They have that nefarious way of sticking to your mouth. You'll also find some attempt at a fancier, more complete sandwich, with more than two ingredients. These are usually over-priced, and always have hard-boiled eggs, onions and the all-staining beetroot included. The pies have been sitting in the warmer too long, and are half-cold, and the pottles of chips are always soggy.

For some reason, the bathrooms are, while tidy, located inconveniently and far too small. They are places without soul, without taste, and without color. And for some reason NZ has embraced them.

I really don't know what this picture is about

I just like it

Via Halbot Mail. Occasionally NSFW, and mostly in Czech (I think)

File under: Oh my!

Link via BoingBoing. Read them.

A Step In The Right Direction

We were all worried that Obama might just be another two-faced politician. This is just amazing. Here's hoping they get fair trials, and don't just get shipped off to another hellhole.

Edit: To track Obama's promises: check the Obameter. Should be interesting over the next few years.

Because I want to melt your brains.

Via Coilhouse, read them

Harriet Carter, where Skymall goes to die

Everyone always has great fun mocking Skymall as a repository of useless junk. But, what if there was a catalogue that made Skymall look like a bastion of class? What if said catalogue made every object in the Skymall seem well crafted and immaculately designed?

Well, ladies and gentlemen, meet the Harriet Carter. It is filled with nothing but the worst sort of junk and hokum, a few of my favourites I'll show below.




If you want your Christmas tree to be scary, how about the Heaven Ornament? Inscribed with a message from the dead, it reads:

I love you all dearly
Now don't shed a tear
I'm spending my Christmas
With Jesus this year.

Yeah, that's more than just a little creepy.





The Fleece Ear Band, so if you absolutely insist on wearing a cap in the winter, you can look like a tool doing so!







Doesn't he look happy to get his hair cut? And on the subject of hair cutting, why not try the Hair Cutting Comb? IT'S JUST RAZORBLADE STRAPPED TO A COMB! THAT'S NOT EVEN AN INVENTION!

Probably the best copy in the entire site is for the "Fanny" Bank. Their quote marks not mine. This is a coin bank that looks like a butt, and farts whenever you put money in it. However, they can't say this, as it might offend the delicate sensibilites of their readers. So, instead, I present this magnificent piece of writing:

"Fanny” bank makes saving money a real GAS! Just drop a coin in the strategically-placed slot of this tushy-shaped bank and listen as it lets out the loudest rip you've ever heard. Add more loot, hear more toot! Up to six flatulent sound effects, guaranteed to make you laugh your “assets” off! Coins remove easily when bank is full. 6" H x 6". Uses 3 AA batteries (not incl.).

If you happen to have some ailment, and don't trust those nasty scientists to help you, then how about using the magic of magnets? You can use it to quite smoking, via two "bio-magnets" that pinch your ears, and produce "good" endorphins.

And what's with all the dickeys? I wasn't even aware dickeys were used any more, let alone still being manufactured.