11.22.63 by Stephen King

November 17, 2011

Here’s a link to my review of 11.22.63 by Stephen King, a time-travel novel about trying to prevent the Kennedy assassination.  The review was just published in Eureka Street.  Today, President Obama has been in Canberra, and fortunately, that visit by a US President to the South seems to have gone a lot more smoothly.   I travelled back from Melbourne to Canberra today, and we taxied quite close to Air Force One.  Amazing to see a plane treated like a celebrity!

When you witness the level of security that necessarily goes with a visit from the US President, it makes you very glad to be living in a less important country, globally speaking.

First review! Plus stars!

September 30, 2011

That’s to say this is the first review on this site. Fear not dear discerning blog-lover, I have written quite a number previously. Indeed, my reviewing efforts were once rewarded with the prize of $200 worth of wine by the ACT Writers Centre, as part of their annual awards. That’s what a poet calls ‘Breakfast’.  I have the pleasure of judging the same award for book reviewing, sponsored by Z4 wines, this year.

And actually, I’m lying. There is a link here to a review written by a Canberra writer who calls himself or herself Poetix. So the review is not really here at all. I assume Poetix is a Canberra writer as the review of Canberra and Beyond by well known Canberra identity Bill Tully appears on the RiotACT, a Canberra-based discussion site about all things Canberran.

Sometimes you can have just too much Canberra.

For those 99.999% of the world’s population who have no interest in Canberra (which is the capital of Australia, for those overseas who have never heard of it) please enjoy this little poem about the frustrations of astronomy.  The night sky differs between the hemispheres, but there are always stars.

Kicking the telescope

All this antic fiddling

when I wanted wonder

injected from you

like a syringe of pure white.

Fingers work, and thumbs,

in order to make a handle

of space, my grip as dumb

as a paralytic’s knee.

Perspicillim, sounds like

a Martian’s green-snot cold.

Ugly tripod, alien crouching,

on those three ungainly legs.

I swing mine to make a fourth.

You bow your one-eyed head.

P.S. Cottier