Off the Deep End and Still Learning to Swim

Bit by bit I've been figuring out the potential of online writing. I've always been something of a traditionalist when it comes to writing, and I have to admit, I still prefer to read words from a book out in the sunshine than inside at a computer.

However, I've finally started taking a deeper look at the creative potential of online writing and publication. Rather than a static, two-dimensional space like a piece of paper, a web-page or blog offers a dynamic, three dimensional sphere with no limit to what you can do with it.

I can send my reader with a single click to almost any other text that exists. Through space, time, whatever. It doesn't matter, there really are no barriers any more. This of course creates its own problems with media ownership, privacy, basic publishing rights and the ownership of ideas...

It's a tricky one.

Anyway, I've gone back over and revised a previous post, A Six-Shooter Beats Four Aces- Part 1.

I've added hotlinks to other story snippets, hoping that the original piece plus the links will come together to create a workable story. It's a bit experimental at this point and the story isn't even finished, but check it out.

Well that's it for now really: my first real attempt at properly utilising the malleable canvas that is The Internet.

Sneaking 'Round the Net, Nibbling on Tidbits

How to catch a mouse without a mousetrap.

Since starting a blog, I've found myself spending more and more time online, cruising through blogs, websites and wikis. Along the way I've run into dozens of odd little ideas, articles and artworks. Here's one of the more practical for anyone who's ever had problems with mice but could never bring themself to kill the little critters...

Here's a problem solver that's cheap and humane... and pretty damn clever too...

Here's how it works apparently.

1.- Get a toilet paper tube and crease two lines to form a flat sided tunnel.

2.- Put a treat on one end of the tube: A cracker and dab of peanut butter works pretty good.

3.- Get a tall bucket or trash can. Balance the tube precariously on the edge of a table or counter with the treat hanging directly over the bucket.

5.- The mouse will scurry to the treat (apparently they like tunnels) and fall into the trap.

6.- Set the fella loose at least a few k's from home and there you go.

What would we do without the net hey?

Kill more mice probably.

A Six Shooter Beats Four Aces (Part II)

Three days later, Mickey drives us to a block of flats, parks on the curb and has a short conversation with the intercom at the door. Thirty seconds later he waves us over and we follow him into a cramped elevator which takes us to the fourth floor. The hallway is bare and smells of damp carpet. Mickey leads us to a door and knocks, almost shaking the thing off its rusty hinges. The door cracks open and a bloodshot eye appears above the chain, “Who’s there?”
“It’s me you dipshit.”
“How many are with you?”
“Just open the bloody door you idiot.” Mickey’s getting impatient.
The door squeezes shut amidst a wave of muttered grumbling and cursing, followed by the sound of a chain being slid out of its lock and the door swinging open. The stench that wafts from inside is foul and I try not to gag. Romper’s covering his mouth and nose as we all file into the room. Mickey picks his way through the disaster area that was a lounge-room and opens a window. “Missed spring-cleaning this year did you Gutterball?”
The man Mickey calls Gutterball is a sallow, pinch-faced crone with stained army pants, heavy boots and dog-tags hanging from his neck. He scowls at Mickey, “I spray the carpets with a mixture of peat and vinegar. Confuses the Slopes, you know. You’d do well to do the same Mickey-boy.”
“Righto Gutterball, what have you got for us.”
The old trooper disappears into another room, grumbling unintelligibly to himself. While he’s gone a giant fat lizard lumbers out of the kitchen, dragging its stomach across the stained lino. The repulsive thing stops about a metre away and looks us all up and down with beady eyes. Mickey nudges it with his foot. “Slink he calls it. Let’s the bloody thing out and night and it crawls around the roof looking for rats. Eats all the neighbors cats too apparently.” Slink licks his lips, and I think the disgusting creature is calculating how long it would take to digest one of us. Gutterball returns from the other room, straining under a massive bundle wrapped in a blanket. He drops the pile on a mattress in the lounge room and unrolls it.
“Christ.” Billy whistles through his teeth.
Layed out on the mattress is an arsenal of destruction that wouldn’t look out of place strapped to old Sly Stallone in a B-Grade action flick. A grin spreads across Mickey’s face and he slaps Gutterball on the back then chucks us each a bag. “Go for your life boys.”
Billy the Kid picks up two revolvers, twirls them in his hands and then flips them open to take a look down the barrels and at the chambers. Satisfied, he tosses them into his bag and grabs a gun belt and halter for good luck. I pick up a shotgun and a pistol and a few rounds of ammunition then walk over to the window to get some fresh air before I pass out from the stench. Meanwhile, Midget’s picked up a handful of grenades and what looks like an anti-aircraft gun and is waving it around with a look of glee on his haunted face. None of us think the nutcase is serious until he crams the cannon into his bag and struggles vainly to do up the zip.
“Jesus.” Mutters Billy quietly to me, “He serious?”
“Fuckin’ looks like it.”
Back out in the hall and the five of us are doing our best to stay inconspicuous despite the thirty kilo’s of newly acquired hardware. “He was a munitions supply officer in Vietnam.” Mickey says as we pile into the lift. “Served with me da, damn fine man to have at your back too by all accounts. Something happened though, don’t know what but he’s never gotten over it. Don’t know where he keeps pulling these power-tools from either but I don’t ask any questions.”

A Six Shooter Beats Four Aces (Part I)

It’s the back room of a smoky Irish pub and everyone is already there by the time I walk in the door. Mickey Finnegan is racking up the balls on the pool table in the middle of the room. He looks up when I come in and tips me a wink, “There’yar Tommy. We were about to start the tea party without ya.” He’s the spitting image of the suave mobster, Mickey. Tailored grey pinstriped suit, tilted hat, a weeks worth of beard and a cigar between his teeth. He finishes racking the balls, “You play kid?”

“A bit.” I reply and he tosses me a cue then begins chalking his own. There’s three other men in the room, two of whom I recognized and a third I’ve never seen before. There’s a dark haired youth slouched at the bar; Billy the Kid they call him. Named after some TV action hero or some shit. Boy sure knows how to handle a gun though. Midget sits in the corner, watching everyone with those shifty eyes. Fucking nervous case, no way I’d have him watching my back if I had a choice in the matter. The last guy is older and bald, with massive hands, a scar across his cheek and an air of quiet confidence. Mickey leans forward and sights down his cue, “Tommy, you’ve already met Midget and Billy, this is Romper, a mate of mine from way back.” We nod to each over across the table, “Well then, lets get this circus on the road shall we gentleman.”

Mickey fires down the cue ball, sending the numbers spinning every which way around the table.
The one and the four go down in opposite pockets.

“We’ve got one week,” Mickey begins, “We hit the bookies at eleven am sharp, the armourguard truck doesn’t come till midday Thursday.”

The two-ball drops in the opposite corner.

“Wednesday’s the night of the fight, by Thursday morning there should be at least two-hundred thousand bundled up in the coffers of the bookies.”

Three clips the seven and goes down in a side pocket.

“Romper will make the drop in a Ford with taped plates, then take a drive around the block. We’ve got four minutes to be in and out with the cash.”

Mickey strokes the orange five ball and it follows the six into a corner pocket.

“We don’t want any alarms. Any smartarses- just use your imagination, get creative on his arse, but whatever you do, don’t kill anyone.”

Double on the seven goes down in a middle pocket.

“When we’re in there, just leave the talking to me. Simple… right? Any questions?”
“Yeah” I look at the pool table, “you gonna give me a shot?”

Mickey flashes me a smile and shoots without even looking at the ball. “Not likely son.”

The eight-ball drops.

“If everything goes to plan lads, this time next week you’ll all be thirty grand richer.”

Mickey slots the nine.

The Human Machine

I've always been enthralled by odd little ideas and quaint notions of nature and technology. These pictures come from a 1935 textbook called The Miracle of Life edited by Harold Wheeler. It's just such a Romantic notion that even something as incredibly complex and intricate as the human brain can be simplified and expressed as a tangible mechanical process.




The legacy of the industrial revolution... natural science taught with machines.



This is a beautiful book. If you can get your hands on it it is well worth a look.

Home is Where the Wind is

From the air you can trace the arcs of reef and watch fishing boats tack between sandbars and coral spits. There are three clusters of islands that make up the Abrolhos- They’re scattered from north to south like the downward flick of an artists brush. Yellows and greys and greens on a canvas of fervent blues. The larger islands are cluttered with corrugated iron and asbestos shacks, the beaches sprout spindly wooden fingers that stretch to the deeper blue beyond the shallows.

I'm from Geraldton, a place where undulating seas of parched wheat and flocks of laconic sheep make way for sandy coastal plains- and onward to the sea. Since I can remember, we would all go down to the beach- reefwalking, beachcombing, fishing, surfing, swimming, snorkeling. In summer, we spent days at a time in the sun and salt and sand. My elder brother rose like clockwork each morning, six AM, just time for breakfast and a surf, and as the sun rose at his back, he'd paddle out to the break, to sit in line with a dozen other surfers, propped silently on their boards... Watching, waiting for the next set to amble in and break its back over the sand bank.

I finished school and decided to work for a year, to save some cash for uni and the big move to Perth. I got a job on a crayboat- hard work, big money and an amazing lifestyle. In the crisp pre-dawn when we get up to pull the pots, the world seems disconcertingly void of any colour, like looking through a frame at a black and white photograph; parallel lines of greys and blacks blurring away at the edges. As the sun creeps over the horizon, the landscape is dipped in sepia and you have to squint to make out the lines of floats on the bow. Gradually the sun breaks free from the ocean and the whole scene springs to life like a ballerina from a music box. Shags and silver gulls burst from the picture and drift lazily overhead, whitecaps tumble at the peak of each wave and sea lions, sharks and dolphins take turns weaving in and out of our wake.

I try to head back to Geraldton each summer, back to the land of wheat and sheep and sun and sand. I feel the easterly amble in each morning. I watch the boats unload at the “lives” dock and the James Bowes trucks coast in and out of town. Spend enough time on the ocean and it never lets you go. Whenever I think of home; the wind, the water, the waves, my mind unravels like a rope thrown into the sea.

A Six Shooter Beats Four Aces (Part II)

Three days later, Mickey drives us to a block of flats, parks on the curb and has a short conversation with the intercom at the door. Thirty seconds later he waves us over and we follow him into a cramped elevator which takes us to the fourth floor. The hallway is bare and smells of damp carpet. Mickey leads us to a door and knocks, almost shaking the thing off its rusty hinges. The door cracks open and a bloodshot eye appears above the chain, “Who’s there?”
“It’s me you dipshit.”
“How many are with you?”
“Just open the bloody door you idiot.” Mickey’s getting impatient.
The door squeezes shut amidst a wave of muttered grumbling and cursing, followed by the sound of a chain being slid out of its lock and the door swinging open. The stench that wafts from inside is foul and I try not to gag. Romper’s covering his mouth and nose as we all file into the room. Mickey picks his way through the disaster area that was a lounge-room and opens a window. “Missed spring-cleaning this year did you Gutterball?”
The man Mickey calls Gutterball is a sallow, pinch-faced crone with stained army pants, heavy boots and dog-tags hanging from his neck. He scowls at Mickey, “I spray the carpets with a mixture of peat and vinegar. Confuses the Slopes, you know. You’d do well to do the same Mickey-boy.”
“Righto Gutterball, what have you got for us.”
The old trooper disappears into another room, grumbling unintelligibly to himself. While he’s gone a giant fat lizard lumbers out of the kitchen, dragging its stomach across the stained lino. The repulsive thing stops about a metre away and looks us all up and down with beady eyes. Mickey nudges it with his foot. “Slink he calls it. Let’s the bloody thing out and night and it crawls around the roof looking for rats. Eats all the neighbors cats too apparently.” Slink licks his lips, and I think the disgusting creature is calculating how long it would take to digest one of us. Gutterball returns from the other room, straining under a massive bundle wrapped in a blanket. He drops the pile on a mattress in the lounge room and unrolls it.
“Christ.” Billy whistles through his teeth.
Layed out on the mattress is an arsenal of destruction that wouldn’t look out of place strapped to old Sly Stallone in a B-Grade action flick. A grin spreads across Mickey’s face and he slaps Gutterball on the back then chucks us each a bag. “Go for your life boys.”
Billy the Kid picks up two revolvers, twirls them in his hands and then flips them open to take a look down the barrels and at the chambers. Satisfied, he tosses them into his bag and grabs a gun belt and halter for good luck. I pick up a shotgun and a pistol and a few rounds of ammunition then walk over to the window to get some fresh air before I pass out from the stench. Meanwhile, Midget’s picked up a handful of grenades and what looks like an anti-aircraft gun and is waving it around with a look of glee on his haunted face. None of us think the nutcase is serious until he crams the cannon into his bag and struggles vainly to do up the zip.
“Jesus.” Mutters Billy quietly to me, “He serious?”
“Fuckin’ looks like it.”
Back out in the hall and the five of us are doing our best to stay inconspicuous despite the thirty kilo’s of newly acquired hardware. “He was a munitions supply officer in Vietnam.” Mickey says as we pile into the lift. “Served with me da, damn fine man to have at your back too by all accounts. Something happened though, don’t know what but he’s never gotten over it. Don’t know where he keeps pulling these power-tools from either but I don’t ask any questions.”