Shouts From Down Under

Time for...anything.

There is, was and will be another one of those strange phenomena that I grind on about, and finally select the appropriate gear in the manual transmission of this blog entry to relate thoughts on the subject of time warps.

I'm not being silly. Or joking. This is as serious as it gets. I hate that word in all its forms. GETS. Even the GETZ isn't a Holden, but better than walking if to a far destination 'cos walking takes too long.

Everything gets back to time, the passing of it, and the relationship of time to our writing.

Ever notice that the pace of a story can be sped up, slowed down, made to bend in bulges of time, like those screen saver distortion bubbles that were a novelty for about 10 seconds in the late 1990's.

Choppy short sentences with words crammed in. You can't get your breath. There's no spaces to think. The author does their thing. Characters flicker faster than their actions. The plot's main points happen in a short time. Detail becomes less deep that other places. You feel like you've accelerated through the chapter.

Then, just when you can't stand it any more, the story stops in the car park of the final phrase, you get out, turn the page, and launch yourself headlong down the escalator of the next chapter heading, or number, or both, into a mall teeming with either A. The dreary crowds of thick threatening crowds pushing past you, encircling you as these unknown strangers with their plastic bags covered in huge multimillion dollar public floated logos, packed with every fashion statement ever conceived in brainstorm sales boardrooms the world over, this claustrophobic maelstrom of madness becomes the next chapter.
Or B. You smell the relaxing fragrances of the hairdressers combined with svelte savour of subtle perfume, and wellness clinic's masseuse' oils blending with beautiful mannequins gestures; all of this world is drawing you in, and flooding your senses with almost divine pleasant feelings of well being. You love shopping and the elevator music being piped in clone cognition seduces all your senses, lulling your mind into the couch of retail's best courtiers carefully convincing you to trade all this artificial heaven, for the palm of collected cash you offer willingly.

So you are now reading the next chapter of the novel, pushing through an unnoticed film, into a different time zone, dialled down, taken to a slower pace; you are moving unhurriedly along with the crowds, like a deep and tannin coloured river with tiny eddies near the pockets of shoppers crowding around sales trolleys, leaves from the river gums that have fallen unnoticed, but observed from within the caves of predator, lurking behind the clothes racks, or carefully ticketing merchandise. The crusty deep voiced chain smoking (five metres from any doorway or a/c unit outside the mall) hooking home wares, packing parcels, totalising 'tills with added GST, scolding staff, but with their constant vigilante eye on the clock of profit and the customer, clientele, the fly who is buzzing from item to item, banging it's many eyed head against the sales pitch dollar signs. The prey, the reader who is struggling to swim out of this negative geared terrestrial time zone, fails to smell the scent of danger, sees beyond the price war placards, the cardboard / nylon synthetics that are now a transparent window to another world; the world that is of pleasure, show, self, status, style, sex, symbolism, strength of character. This retail junkie is no prey for the shop keeper but justifies these jaunts in retail therapy, euphemistically redefining him or herself as part of the sanity saving, pocket raving, wallet shaving shop util you drop crop.

Then, just a smidgen of time before you cry out for mercy, just before you realise you've been trapped in time, taken hostage in a mall of mediocrity and madness, there comes a burst of action and dialogue that rolls through the scenes and setting like the bulge of a Microsoft / Windows screen saver, invisibly distorting the descriptors, adjectives, metaphors, double sliding security doors, fire alarms, shoplifting, police arms, car park car alarms, cosmopolitan cosmetic beauty and the beast parlour balms.

"Can I help you."

"I'd like to try this top on...would you..?"

"Certainly...here, just...through...here,"

"Thanks...Oh, and is that..does that price...I found this on that plinth over there...is it..?"

"Yes! They are all still 50% OFF! Take your time. All the time you need...I'll just be serving the others over here, if you need me just call.."

"Thanks."

Yes, she has all the time in the world. Really?

There was an accident where I work, yesterday. This morning the entire work site (some acres / hectares) was closed, and the building entrance to the site locked down. There was a meeting of everyone onsite, that even included me, the cleaner. Strange thing was, because my workplace was within the building, I could still do my job. So there was a canteen crammed full of blokes all rearing to work, but only me doing a bit of mopping and wiping door glass.
Is it just me, or can anyone else see the funny side of this. I didn't see the joke at the time. I was waiting for a hundred blokes to all say,

"Missed a bit!"

The reality of an accident, is a meeting about safety.

Here is a charming site that brings time to a sense of reality that is sobering.

http://www.deathclock.com/

Just so you know, yes, I did submit my details into it and here's a pic of the seconds of my life diminishing...well, by the second.



Yes, the way words are written, the style, the pace, even the appearance can create the illusion of time being different or feeling that way.

It's something I love about writing, and even today, when I have to tell you, I feel extremely low, and not for any definable reason, just do. Well, there's writing and the fiddling about with words, the different ways we can paint, sculpt, render, hack, and otherwise make a world feel different to reality.

There is a warning voice whispering in the back of my mind. Reality is one thing. Chance is another.

There are no guarantees in life except death and taxes, we are told, but another thing that never fails, is chance.

Nobody can say that they'll definitely survive until next Thursday, for instance.

I risk being too morbid in this blog.

Something I've noticed that is possible in writing, is a technique for putting people at ease, but more than that, of creating a feeling of peace. Tranquil river side scene with all the senses fed on a fruit platter of relaxed pleasantness. I'm not talking about hypnotism, quotes from the Deli Lama, or some other mind stuff.
I just mean something simple that any one of us writers can do.

It's on purpose. This feeling of talking together, quietly, calmly, relaxed, non-threatened. Perhaps it's owing to there being nothing to lose, no expectations and nothing to be gained from grandstanding or goofing off.

I'm not sure what it is, but like a lot of writing, moods like that are way easier to generate if we feel like that ourselves, right now.

So, our moods, we can conclude, can contribute to how the reader feels.

Have you ever written something this week, only to sit down next week to finish it off, or edit, and have no idea why you wrote it in such a fashion? Not that it's wrong, but you just wonder how on earth you had that mood? Why did you feel that way?

Anyway, I think my time is up for now, for this blog. Let's not get started on the nows, and how we only have now in life, really.

I think true peace is only possible, in a true sense, not just in writing it, when we truly accept who we are, our reality, and in my case, accept what I believe are the key requirements for this life, to enter into the next one with any sort of hope; eternal hope. You know what I'm on about.

And that, dear folks, is a subject for another blog and another lifetime perhaps. Can anyone spare the time to read the instruction booklet that comes with life?

There's the question. We could blah on all we like, but living it is the only answer. And we all live it, one way, or the other.

Sparky