Body language

There is a lot of bilge written about body language. However, body language is one of the most powerful and genuine means of communication. Here are a couple of simple body language cues that I want to remember for my writing. Can’t say I am convinced by all of them, but these are in pretty common usage – certainly the even halfway competent interviewer will know these, so they are good enough for stories.

I wonder, too, if there isn’t a cultural bias. I recognise these as an English speaker whose culture has been saturated with American sensibilities. Would I recognise them if I were from a rural province of China. I wonder.

Looking right = lying, guessing

Looking left = recalling something

Pupils dilated (enlarged) = attraction or desire

Frequent blinking = excitement

One arm clasping other by side = nervousness, defensiveness

Touching or scratching nose while speaking = lying or exaggerating

Ear tugging = indecision

Neck scratching = disbelief

Running hands through hair = flirting

Leg position when sitting = interest if knees are pointed towards you and disinterest if pointed away

Parted lips/slight pout = attraction

Tilting head to expose neck = interest and availability

Straightening posture = urge to appear appealing

 

Contract signed. Vanilla Assassin is now scheduled for October release, just in time for the Frankfurt Book Fair.

 

Murder and immortality

Like Raymond J Bartholomew, who had a glory moment years ago on Red Faces but has now slipped into a permanent role as a pretentious side-kick, I have returned from Philip Island. Before I went I was full of anguish: over work, over my writing, over my relentless back pain, over life in general. Then I had a great time on camp. It all melted away. My back did not seem so bad, as my brother in law, Adrian, had a worse case. His slipped disc is new, whereas mine is old, and I have developed all sorts of coping methods. His, being hot off the cracked-cartilage press, had him in an agony that I recognised. It’s debilitating, embarrassing, and humbling for men who are independent and self-reliant to have to ask for help. There’s a message in that right there.

Suddenly it was a work week, but only a short one because of Australia day, and the fact that the boss took extra sickies – “Nothing trivial, we hope,” was the comment. When he returned it was the same routine of playing second fiddle to ‘the great’, without benefit of purpose, direction, or even oversight. Were I a captain of industry I could have set mighty wheels in motion. The week took a year to pass, and I looked at the calendar and thought, “My God: 2010. How did that happen? It was 1986 about five minutes ago.” Mortality is a debilitating, embarrassing, and humbling thing for middle-aged men who were once dynamic young immortals. There’s another message in that, as well.

But at Philip Island something important happened, like a shit sandwich from the Negative Universe.

I discovered an unsuspected talent for murder.

Not the mundane kind of murder involving slaughtering my fellow humans (and man, that list of deserving victims nags me sometimes in the dead of night). The more primal kind of Man imposing his dominion over the animal kingdom that God placed there for just that purpose – apparently. I’m talking about fishing. In four days of fishing from the Philip Island pier I pulled in 12 fish, all but one of which I returned to the water unharmed. One, sadly (for it), was large enough to eat, so I did. It was a King George Whiting. After careful filleting I simply fried it and ate, remembering to be thankful that the poor unlucky bastard had to die in order for me to get this rush of manfulness.

Those around me caught bugger-all, if they had a bite at all. What message could I take? Luck, for one. Just plain, dumb luck. But if thousands of years of Asian culture has taught us anything, it is that you don’t want to piss on the concept of luck. Like it or not, it’s a real force. The second important thing is that I must have mellowed over the years. I once learnt from a fly-fisher that (contrary to popular opinion) fish aren’t dumb bioautomatons. They are very sensitive to the sound coming down the fishing line. Smokers, apparently, make poor (unlucky) fishermen, he claimed, probably because of the inherent nervous tension. Similarly, over active, impatient fishermen have little luck. Presumably, in this case, the rapid heartbeat is transmitted down the line and the fish can tell that there is a maniac nearby. On the other hand, maybe they are so damned impatient the fish never get a chance to bite before they down tools and storm off. One final thought occurred to me as I pondered these ideas. And that was that I liked to imagine the fish knew that I basically meant them no harm. Sure, I was going to eat them if they were of the right species and of decent size – but that’s the luck of the draw, right? What I had absolute certainty of was that anything else would be returned unharmed, with the hook gently removed. And fish jumped on my hook often. Connection? I like to think so, and it’s my universe inside my head, and that’s how I like it to run.

No such attitude from the bloke beside us one day, who pulled in nothing but Smooth Toadfish (while I was pulling in Australian Herring, and then returning them), and then contemptuously killed them on the pier. ‘They’re pests. They take the bait but you can’t eat them. They’re poisonous to eat.’

So? What has that got to do with anything?

Have you seen a Smooth Toadfish? They are a gorgeous fish. Such intense gold and red eyes. Such beautiful speckling. A cute stubby body and that adorable overbite. How could you not be entranced by them? What the hell has utility got to do with it? This was the true face of Man The Hunter, not the flaky, hippy bullshit that I had been imagining. Kill. Not kill or be killed. Not kill in order to feed the family. Just kill. This was what had raised us to our place of dominance on the planet. Not pathetic, girlie ‘respect for nature and working in harmony with the ecology’. No, just plain rape and take what you want.

Mind you. I got the eater, and all he got was a bad mood (and a pile of innocent corpses). Perhaps there is a message in this as well.

However, my naval gazing on these matters was, and remains, entirely secondary to the real triumph of the experience.

Zach was appalled by this display of wanton destruction. He revealed later that he thought he was going to cry. My patient displays of catching loads of fish and then being kind to them – but being willing to kill with my own hands if it was to be eaten – gave him a clear message. Nature is a harsh place, and you eating means killing, but that does not give you the right to treat nature like magic-pudding. It was confronting to him to discover, as we all discover every day, that not everyone actually gives a shit about anything outside themselves.

Zach discovered fishing on that trip. He discovered that he liked standing still for long periods of time casting and retrieving, casting and retrieving. Enjoying the way the light plays on the water. Experiencing the sun and the storm rain. Just being. He shook his head and tutted like any solid curmudgeon when a group of kids started to jump off the pier to swim. “Go join them and swim if you want,” I said. But he wouldn’t. They were scaring the fish and cutting off the area he wanted to cast to.

He caught four fish, one of which, a Blue Mackeral, was large enough to eat. So we did. Dad and lad.

And as I watched him patiently baiting and casting, shading his eyes from the glare, damning the pot-bellied toadfish murderer with a look, and gently slipping fish back in the water, I recognised that I was somehow over there as well. There I was: a little piece of me. My attitudes living on, with a life I’ll never experience. There’s a message in that, right there.

Zach has declared now that he wants to build a marine fish tank and keep Smooth Toadfish that he catches from piers. Little pieces of magic saved from casual cruelty. I would never have thought of that. That is true creation.

 

There are two generally accepted brands of ignorance

The first one goes like this:

“I’ve never heard of that word/event before. What does it mean/tell me more.”

The second one goes like this:

“I’ve never heard of that word/event before.” [Therefore I will attempt to crush it into a word/event I have heard of and once you have hammered in that it is something else I will denounce it as horseshit.]

Here’s an example of the latter kind:

[Holding an empty tea cup] “I’m going to get a cup of cha.”

“Jar?”

“No. cha.”

“Jar?”

“No. cha. C H A. Tea.”

“You mean chai?”

“No. Cha.”

“Chai?”

“No. Cha.”

“What’s cha?”

[Still holding teacup] ”It’s just an English slang word for tea.”

“Never herard of it.” [Dismissively - clearly you are either making it up because you are a smartarse, or even if it is true then it is an obscure piece of irrelevant knowledge that is of no use whatsoever.]

++++++++++++

The golden example of this behaviour in the public arena was the internationally famous (in Melbourne) superstar of entertainment (if you listen to Aussie Rules football radio commentary), Rex Hunt. His catch phrase, “You idiot,” generally came hot on the heels of another presenter pointing out such egg-headish bildge as, “Red is a colour indicating danger in the West, but to the Asians it is a sign of good luck.”

This contempt for anything not already known is interesting. Is it limited to Melbourne, Australia, the former British colonies, English speakers, all cultures? I wonder. Just as sarcasm does not sit comfortably in some cultures, I’m sure that arrogant ignorance is not universal.

Being stupid is not a crime, but lack of curiousity and contempt for the unknown is.

 

€3m Carbon trade fraud

Oh, no. Can it be true? Are we so corrupt and venal that even this, the last efforts to save human life from extinction, are being rorted for criminal gain?

Yes. And I’m OK with that.

I guess there are two basic points of view. One is that the heart of man is basically good and that if only everyone were treated with respect and given enough freedom they will make intelligent, decent decisions and could be trusted not to take advantage of their neighbour and work for a common good. The cause for such optimism could be that some supernatural being designed us to be this way, and that the evidence we see for ‘bad’ behaviour is in some way a departure from the ideal ‘norm’. There could be another reason, but I challenge anyone to find a rational explanation for such an idyllic outcome. The future, from this vantange point, requires only that one wishes very hard for good things to happen and, poof, they will.

The other is that we are perfectly ordinary, though socially sophisticated, mammals. We lie, cheat, philander and murder. We use our intelligence not for any greater good, but to get more than the other guy while we live. Crime, in this sense, is a very ordinary trait. One that the mainstream of society (those already conditioned into conformance) must combat – don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating amorality, I’m just saying that from this point of view it is normal and inevitable. The trick is to contain or direction these natural traits and minimise the damage to the majority of people because, after all, if there were no constraints to behaviour then civilisation would collapse.

Why, we might even poison ourselves to death with pollution.

But what tools to use for this control? Command economies,  corporate capitalism and fascist unities are out of fashion. What is left is some kind of hope that a directioned market is needed. A directioned market? I hear you scream. How has Big Government ever helped anything? It does not have to be a Big Government solution, and that’s not my point. My point is that an unrestrained market allows me to build a factory in your backyard and poison your river and not care as long as I am making more money than you in order to render you powerless to prevent me. No greater good is served by this arrangement except me being richer than you in the short term. And in the long term we both die through environmental degredation.

Do I believe that Carbon Trading is a good scheme to mould behaviour to encourage businesses to stop polluting the other fellow’s air and water? I really don’t know. I’ve never studied the exact text. But I don’t think I need to, as long as I see signs that human ingenuity and corruption is doing its natural work. Take this recent news:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/business/2010/jan/11/eu-carbon-trading-carousel-fraud

Oh, those awful men. How could they try to make money from something as inherently good as this? You know what I see? I see intelligent men coming up with intelligent mammalian plans to squeaze the system to feather their own nests, and in the process promote, use, and exchange legitimately generated carbon credits. Once they are in an economy, of course there will be clever scams. If there were not clever scams then they would not be in circulation – no one would benefit. No one would be making money. No help to the enviornment would be occuring.

If capitalism is about allowing the intelligent to figure out the best way for themselves to enrich themselves, and if we are endlessly inventive, then making a framework to allow people to figure out a way to rort it is clearly better than trying to enforce laws to prevent undesirable behaviours. Isn’t that the spirit if capitalism? Less prevention, more freedom?

If it’s about pricing, then surely pricing pollution so that the market itself desires alternatives is working with human nature.

And so I tip my hat to those chaps who made off with three million Euros. That’s enterprising, that is. And as a reasult, the world may be just a little cleaner.

 

The monstrous lumber listening to death metal, and the year yawns ahead of me like a black chasm

Thoughts for Monday:

1) You can tell when someone is close to death – within an hour. It’s like popcorn. When the pops become further apart, you know there aren’t many kernals left. Same thing with the breath and seconds of life remaining.

2) Ontological interia. Things exist independantly and do not suddenly cease to exist because of, say, the death of a precursor or ancestor. So how come the ’sub’ vampires all die when Dracula is killed? This is a flaw.

3) Bildungsroman. An educational novel. Should this be the purpose of every novel? Lewis indicated that he thought there was no point in writing a story if it did not have some kind of message. And his stories were turgid with morals. Tolkein hated allegory in books. He wanted the story to stand alone. But his stories ooze with politcal instructions: divine right of kings, for one. The trick may be to believe in the value of bildungsroman, but to not labour the point when building it. Just allow the subconscious to populate the fictional landscape with allegory.

 

Bring on Waterworld

In a way, I can understand the ‘who pays’ argument that is going on behind the scenes  at the Copenhagen forum on climate change. After all, the economy is real. Things do have to be paid for somehow, because paying for things is about making sure that people are rewarded for doing the work, which means they can eat, and therefore live.

In the economics of things, this can be applied to the debate raging about climate change. The West has benefited by using these industries and has put itself ahead of the rest of the world. Now the rest of the world is being asked to cut back on those very things that have been proven to have the ability to lift them out of poverty. It is, in effect, asking them to accept permanent second-class citizenship of the world.

By the same token, the West can look at the levels of pollution coming out of the developing world and ask why it should subsidise countries that have shown no willingness or ability to reform themselves. It would be just throwing good money after bad, resulting in no change at all.

Where’s the good will? On top of this there is the unwillingness of the developed world to potentially become disadvantaged against its rivals. Cleanliness costs. That cost has no immediate payoff – certainly not during the term of a single government. What government could expect re-election if all they had to offer was a reduction in the standard of living in order to pay for some far-off lofty theory, when their neighbours have ever smaller mobile phones that can also make coffee and keep them in touch in ever-more-clever ways.

Oh, my. What a conundrum.

How did the Pharaohs get over this problem when they mentioned to their subjects that they wanted to build mighty monuments with a longer project timeline than their citizens’ for no other reason than they wanted something that would stand the test of time? Or how about the Great Wall, constructed in sections, admittedly, but a project that had a long time scale and an uncertain payoff? And these were just political stunts, not actually anything as important as the literal survival of the species.

What are we to do? There seems no way out of this.

Perhaps there is a way! Perhaps all the scientists are wrong! Perhaps the unprecedented rising levels of carbon-dioxide in the atmosphere are not caused by human activity. Maybe the correspondance to the use of coal and other fuels and the rise in CO2 is entirely coincidental. Maybe it’s natural! And if it’s natural then we don’t have to do anything at all, of course. We don’t need to develop new technologies to help us cope with this change. If it’s natural then everything will be fine: nature will find a way. The sea levels will rise, people will starve, but that’s OK, because God willed it. And at least WE will have our ivory towers to hide in while we make Soylent Green out of all those others who had the poor luck to lose life’s lottery and be born ’somewhere else’.

It could get better. Maybe the scientists that have published an unbroken stream of research are completely wrong and nothing is happening at all. Maybe they are malicious and are making it up to further their own bandwagons. They just invent data and put it together so that they can secure research grants. That’s how it works, you know. You just give scientists money and they invent anything you like. That’s how science works: it’s like magic. But they can’t be trusted, these white-coated buffoons that gave us absolutely every piece of technology that we take for granted. Oh, yes, they’re only too happy to turn their ’science’ to work to make us things, but give them half a chance and they’ll turn around and give us bad news. They’re venal – they don’t have anyone’s interest in their hearts except their own. Imagine the audacity of them! How dare they tell us anything other than what we want to hear. No: hanging’s too good for them. Send them go back to their foul-smelling academic lodgings and let them return with an answer we want to hear.

Sadly, I fear, we might have to do something. We might have to develop new technologies. We might have to face the hordes of refugees fleeing the advancing tides. We might have to admit that the structure of our industry, our society and our economy cannot withstand the strains of this new world, without radical transformation. All that costs, of course, and that is the problem. And who’s going to pay? Certainly not me, say’s everyone.

I mean, we could make sacrifices in order to save the species. These sacrifices might reduce standards of living for a generation – maybe even cost lives – but not as many as if we did nothing and we all become extinct. But every life is sacred, of course. It’s better to lose absolutely everyone, rather than a single person. It’s a hard equation, and a hard angle to take, and I don’t envy the brinksmanship that the politicians are engaging in to ensure that it is the other fellow’s country that is going to make the sacrifices and not mine.

Gosh, I wish there was a way out. But I guess there’s not.

I guess we’ll just have to become extinct while the politicians fiddle. Only, of course, the world is not burning – except in UV. It will drown. Chances are there will not be Kevin Costner with gills to represent the last best hope for humanity. There will just be a lot of undersea monuments to a species that was so stupid it drowned in its out excrement while arguing whose job it was to clean it up.

You maniacs.

 

The tyranny of Christmas spontaneity

My owner, handler and trainer has been ‘advising’ me for some time about what she wants for Christmas. In general, were I an average male and she an average female—and Australian —this would make perfect sense. She would, at first, hint. Then she would spell things out. Then she would create a list and hand it over. Finally, she would buy the goods for herself and hand me the bill. This is a well-established pattern in this country: women demand, men are stupid.

However, after years of experience you would think that she would have noticed that I buy gifts all through the year and always supply whatever she mentioned during the course of that year.

So what has changed, I asked myself, as I stood in the jewellery store looking at beautiful earring trees? Why does she need an earring tree? Because, for year after year, I have been buying earrings. When we were courting (how quaint a word) I bought earrings. Not for any reason like birthdays or anniversaries, but because I wanted to. So the dresser overflows with the things.

She used to have an earring tree, but Zach grabbed it and bent it broken one day in a fury. Why? I forget, but I was furious, and titillated, at the same time.

So now that we are in our forties, and the boys are in their teens, it appears that I have become an imbecile and need to be reminded, with notes, about what I am supposed to buy for Christmas as a present.  Naturally I am insulted. But do I deserve it, I ask? Have I lost the spark? Certainly that ‘unfortunate business’ with the pre-menopausal fancies has left me flush with the feeling of success and conquest. But should this suddenly have rendered me dumb?

Maybe I am too sensitive to these thoughts. After all, I have now climbed the heights that I might be considered an ordinary inconsiderate Australian male, rather than an over-sensitive foreigner. This is a mark of acceptance, however back-handed.

So, while I did have a good grasp of what was desired, and had bought most of it six months ago, I did suffer pangs of guilt as I searched for this damned earring tree only a month before the supposed birth of the baby Jesus. The trouble that this caused! Some shops were staffed by adolescent tarts who’s comment when asked for earring trees was a quizzical stare. “Earring trees”, they asked with their bored eyes, “what are they?” While the earrings, on the trees, accused them from all sides.

eBay provided some beautiful examples, but harsh experience has taught me that anything from the US might take months, and months and months and months. Or it might take a week. You can’t depend on them.

Then I found a little shop in town, and when I said that I was after earring trees, I was granted a genuine smile—imagine that— and she showed me exactly what I had in mind. It made it all worthwhile. It returned to me the spontaneous joy that gift-giving is supposed to be about.

All this can be compared to my boss who complained that all shops in Australia are closed at all times that he wants to shop. Perhaps this is true. I don’t know: I’ve never had the urge to buy just-the-right chaise lounge at 2AM. Moreover, he claims, when you do find a rare shop that is open, the service at the counter is appalling. You get what you give out, I say. And I love the earring tree that I went out to buy, the smile that accompanied the purchase, and the smile that I hope will accompany the receipt.

 

How to be a columnist

1. Understand the genre. Shorter than most newspaper and magazine articles, columns generally run between 350 to 1,000 words. Their writing is tight, light, and bright, and their subject area, like their format, is predictable (e.g., personal development, politics, parenting, gardening). The columns themselves, however, are unpredictable, meaning fresh. Readers know they’ll be getting new information and insights with each installment, and so they return for more.

2. Learn from the masters. Follow the work of three to five established columnists over a several-week period. Or, go to your local library or bookstore for the collected works of favorite columnists. Read actively to discover key tricks of the trade. Study how columnists organize their work, open and close their pieces, interweave quotes and statistics. Observe how each has a “voice,” or style, that is as distinctive as a fingerprint. Note what you like and don’t like–and why.

3. Determine your goals. As mentioned, columns can be great vehicles for promoting your service or cause. But they’ll only get you where you want to go, if you know where you’re going. Accordingly, take a few moments to determine where you want to be one, two, or three years or more from now. In what ways can a column support your efforts, further your goals, and keep you on track?

4. Question yourself. Articles are distinct units; when they’re done, they’re done. Not so columns; finish one and another dozen or two are waiting in the wings to be written. Your audience and editor literally await your next installment, and so you must deliver, be it daily, weekly, or monthly. So here’s the key question you must ask and answer: Do you have what it takes to produce a column over time, given your busy schedule and competing priorities?

5. Serve others. The successful column has a dedicated readership. These folks take time out of their busy schedules because they need something from you, be it information, insight, or entertainment. As a columnist, it’s your job to give them all they want–and more. And you do this by identifying the many ways you can be of service to them. The greater your willingness to serve their specific and individual needs, the greater your column’s relevancy and popularity.

6. Attract the right reader. Different strokes for different folks–and different columns as well. That’s because all columns appeal to somewhat narrow (though not necessarily small) groups of individuals. To attract the right group for you, pinpoint their key characteristics. For example, what’s their age and sex? Their educational and economic level? Their political and spiritual beliefs? Where do they live and work? The more specific you can be, the greater your ability to “talk your reader’s talk,” not just in terms of subject matter but word choice.

7. Play with format. Columns may be short, but they’ve got lots of room for creativity. Anything goes … as long as it works for readers and is replicative. Play with several formats before zeroing in on one. Study what other columnists have done (see No. 2 above, and use their work as a template. Or create a wholly new format precisely tailored to your audience and message. The key is to experiment and to have your content and format mesh seamlessly.

8. Develop your prototypes. Once you determine your format, write five to seven sample columns. This serves two purposes. First, you will get your feet wet, shake out all bugs, and polish your writing style. (The more distinctive the style, the more unique the column.) Second, you will create a representative sample of your work, which you can then market or launch; editors, after all, want to see a column writer’s treatment over time, not just a single column.

9. Choose your marketing approach. Columns can be marketed in a number of different ways. You can distribute your work through syndicates, for example, which are companies that serve as your sales/marketing/PR teams in one and which take a cut of the proceeds. Or you can self-syndicate your work by going directly to individual newspapers, magazines, or Web sites. You also can launch your column via your own e-mail or snail mail newsletter, or Web site. (There are pros and cons to each of these approaches, as discussed in the WriteDirections.com teleclass “Become a Columnist”; some, like working through syndicates, are more of a long shot than, say, self-syndication.)

10. Be patient. Columns take time to develop, so if you’re looking for quick results, look elsewhere. Like a fine wine, they tend to get better with time. Their scope deepens, their writing improves, their audience builds. These things take time and patience; however, if you’re truly willing to make the investment, the payoffs can be enormous.

 

Robin Hood, from a 13YO POV

Tonight I watched Aidan’s school performance of Robin Hood. I now sit at 2400 hrs, with a vodka at my elbow, considering not going to work tomorrow.

School plays. I remember them. I remember the smell of crap makeup, of tension and excitement. I remember learning the lines. Learning and learning and being frustrated that no other bastard could – even though they were the leads. I remember a play called The Man from Taxes, in which I had the comedic role of the postmaster, a corrupt, buffoonish character who set the comedic tone for the drama and romance to come. I arrived on a bicycle, ringing a bell as I came from the back of the Rangiora High School hall. I had the first line. I ascended the stage and steamed open letters with panache, and the laughs rolled over me. I get misty eyed over it now: my 15 minutes of fame. And then the romantic leads came on and took the centre. And though they stumbled, they were the leads, and I was the comedic interlude. No kisses, on stage or off, for Bozzie. Just laughs.

Tonight, my boy Aidan played Will Scarlet in an interpretation of Robin Hood that was new to me (though I had read the script with him on a few occasions, but you know what I mean). He had the first line, a comedic line. He rolled in, supposedly drunk (poor dear, his only example being me, I guess) singing Kung Fu Fighting. He knew his lines. He knew everyone’s lines. He had memorised the entire play, but had shrunk from taking a bigger part or rolling over multiple nights or acts – they split things up in these Steiner establishments just so everyone gets a go. He spoke clearly and forcefully and was frustrated that his some-time best friend ad-libbed and wrong-footed him. But there’s the difference: that fellow was born to the stage and relished being in the centre – so it did not matter that he could remember only one line in five. He relished the spotlight, whereas Aidan battled, and learnt, and had the comedic lines and not the romantic lead.

But ego-centrism and melancholia overtake me. There were highlights, as there must be in any form of entertainment put on by earnest children. In the second half the oversized crown of a small-headed King John that continually slipped down had me in tears of joy. And the Bishop, in both halves, had such beautiful lines that I am tempted to steal them, were given fantastic treatment by Jacob and Ronja. I love their performances and the lines they spoke.

But my greatest appreciation goes to Tailem, a boy who I’ve always had a soft spot for. A boy who battled a life-threatening brain lesion when he was so small I could weep now to remember him, who was always so full of life. Tonight he was back in full force. His acting was superb: the changes in tone and emotion, of pacing and presence. He was a delight. I am proud on his mother and father’s behalf.

Just as I am proud of my own son. Who learnt his lines. And tried his best.