News from our fort at Solor

Some will laugh at us, Amilcar, in a future yet to be imagined.
As you say, O meu Capitão.
The Holandes, they will pass.
Sons of Spanish pimps and Flemish whores, O meu Capitão
But our fort at Solor will endure.
This I believe also, O meu Capitão.
Because in their hearts, all men are Portuguese. And they were all lost, seeking the Indies.
May they see our forts, O meu Capitão...
...and know themselves, Amilcar. This is why our impossible empire
will whisper... forever.

Caravelserai!

Yes, as part of my new seaborne web diary series, I'll be coming up with a new lameass compound pun every week. Stay tuned for more dubious segues from early Portuguese colonialism in Asia to my new obsessions with contemporary vids and books.

So, as you may know, I left Fort Solor and, glimpsing our fort of Lifau off the port side, headed southward. What books are currently on O Capitão's shelf, I hear you cry? Well might you ask. Once I'm done with Goodbye to all that, the following are in store for me.

Comments, and suggestions for first tract off the rack welcome. And any I really shouldn't waste time on too.

* signals considerable anticipatory excitement from me, based on authors previous work

** signals added anticipatory excitement from me, based on authors previous work AND known connection with early Portuguese voyages to Asia.

• Roberto Bolano: 2066*, Amulet, The Skating Rink
• David Sedaris: When you are engulfed in flames
• Alberto Moravia: Contempt
• Augusten Burroughs: Dry
• Irene Nemirovsky: David Golder
• Boyd Oxlade: Death in Brunswick
• Jose Saramago: The Elephant's Journey**
• JD Salinger: Franny and Zooey*

O Capitão's Cultural Caravel: All aboard!

You know, it hasn't been easy here at Fort Solor, in my self-imposed exile in the Torre de Keating, with only the annual dispatches from Lisbon, the nervy security forecasts of Lt Amilcar, and six utterly incomprehensible Mirandese foot soldiers for company. So bugger it, I'm setting sail, solo - south to Luca Antara, following the last known voyage of Eredia.

What will I find? Who knows, but I'm travelling with a shitload of ill-bootten gotty: DVDs and books mainly.

So, its ahoy and bemvindo to O Capitão's Caravel de Cultura. I've decided to turn this blog into a seaborne semi-diary of random cultural notes: primarily on books I'm reading, and films I've been watching. Partly because I tend to quickly forget films I've watched, I feel like I should start keeping records.

Beware, marinheiros, the seas ahead could be choppy, or dull and placid. I have no idea. Frankly, I can't promise we'll see land. But anyone who sails with me on BmL shall be my brother (and/or sister); be s/he ne'er so vile! etc...

Ill be back later with the first shipment.

Update:
Yeah, so, like, a few notes. Any thoughts, comments, logical next steps welcome, as I piece together Western civilization and modernity, artefact by artefact, in a ill-informed way.  

Lately, I has been mostly been.... putting a newborn to sleep, frankly. But in between:

Livros e Revistas:  Thought I'd revisit Robert Graves Goodbye to all That, which Ive not read since my teens. Erudition, and the compelling first hand accounts of WW1. Its a powerful combo. Recently I finished Matthew Condon's Brisbane, which would probably be more exciting if you weren't already a keen student of that city's history, like your humble Capitão. I read Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer for the first time recently, and while I sensed the genius, it was all a bit overtaken by the genre (he had no doubt created) subsequently becoming more respectable and commonplace. I found myself a bit whelmed - although there were quite a few passages of great genius, and I loved the character van Norden. I also resubscribed to London Review of Books after a long hiatus.

Filmes e DVDs: Its been Robert Bresson season round 'ere at Chez Caravel. Is there any director who knew better how to pace a story? A Man Escaped (aka Un condamné à mort s'est échappé ou Le vent souffle où il veut) must be the best prison escape drama ever; Pickpocket is impossible to turn way from, and his famous Joan of Arc (script based on the trial records) is also a cracker. Frankly, French 'old wave' was the go. This guy was a master.

New Fort Design poll!

Seems Lt Amilcar got on the beetle-nut while was I was out briefly (shoring up allegiances among the Topasses, and looking for Sandlewood). He's redesigned the entire fort.

Check the starboard bow, Marineiros, its a new poll!

At the Home of all Fortalezas

Os meus BmListas...

Lisbon has called me home on urgent business, and I am currently encamped in Coimbra, reviewing my notes for a forthcoming text on Dutch shipping routes in the greater Solor/ Larantuka region.

Any urgent matters can be raised via the fort-gate suggestions box, and please feed João the tiger-cat if you see him out front. He likes ship biscuits best.

Oh, and tell Lt Amilcar I got him the 'O meu Capitão went to Torre de Belem, and all I got was this lousy camisa' he wanted.

Ate logo!

Vanuatu

Its a beautiful place. Pray tell, punteros, why are we so ill-attuned to the Pacific in general? Particularly those among us - including your 'umble correspondent - who grew up in Quinceland? (I'm prepared to give Sandgropers a free pass on this one).

Is it a generational (X) thing? Were our colonialist forebears more engaged with those imperial territories before the waves of independence in the 1970s? Will the young 'uns be more so than us, owing to the recent Australian interventions in the so-called "arc of responsibility"? Is it because people my age encountered an independent Pacific and lost interest? Or is it simply a case of "hang on, I'm still getting used to the whole Asia deal - slow down!". Or is it something more prosaic, like low rates of travel, and therefore higher airfares? The latter is certainly a dated view these days, what with the decline of QANTAS monopolies in the region.

Anyway, I was there for work, but had one day touring the island of Efate; home to the capital, Port Vila. The bottom picture attests my nerdy interest in colonial history. As you may know, Vanuatu was formerly the New Hebrides and - unusually - under the control of the joint Anglo/ French Condominium (otherwise known as the 'Pandemonium').

But that's easy. Quiz time is harder than that! Whoever correctly identifies the smaller flag below the Tricoleur (not you, World of Yentl) is this month's Capitão do Fortaleza at BmL! (Click for higher-res, if you want a closer squiz.)

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BmL is currently somewhere in the region and can't take your call. Please hold while our dedicated service personnel struggles out of his hammock, or leave a message below.

Fort Temperança

Here at BmL, we've taken the pledge. The Febfast pledge!

Word from the Capitão is: absolutely no drinking vinho verde and hanging out over the fort walls, yelling abuse at the Holandês, and/or any rebellious Topasses laying siege to our sandalwood booty, for four whole weeks.

Plan is not so much to raise funds for, um, whatever it raises funds for (haven't actually looked - but I will, and will totes donate some of the savings), but rather, to see if we can't erm, circumnavigate certain waist latitudes better after 4 weeks off the weekend boozing.

I'm glad they picked Fevereiro anyway. Only 28 days of this merda.

The Parting Glass: Vale Liam Clancy

Sad news from Ireland that Liam Clancy, of the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, has died. They made Irish music roll like no-one before or since, and Liam was their mainstay. Bob Dylan was a huge fan, and said of Liam “I never heard a singer as good as him ever. He was just the best ballad singer I ever heard in my life, still is probably.” Those who saw the Scorcese doco on Dylan will have seen him recalling Liam Clancy's exhortation to the young singer, then starting out in Greenwich Village: "No fear, no malice, no envy".

Great advice. (Not that Bob followed it.)

In any case, my old man played the Clancy Brothers over and over through my childhood, and I grew to love their rollicking, twee-free, passionate sound - and also the native wit and literary sensibility of their stage humour between tracks on the live albums. And at the old man's funeral, at his oft-repeated request,were sung Shoals of Herring and Fields of Athenry. The Liam Clancy versions.

And so, a parting glass, to the magnificent Liam Clancy. Slán agus beannacht leat.

Oh, all the comrades e'er I had,
They're sorry for my going away,
And all the sweethearts e'er I had,
They'd wish me one more day to stay,
But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should rise and you should not,
I gently rise and softly call,
Good night and joy be with you all.

Our Lady of Prosciutto

Carpe pm: seize the afternoon

Yes, if I can't sleep in, it ain't my revolution! etc. I don't know about you, but early's never been my scene. Indeed, I was just recalling the other day, when I was younger, in me carefree 20s with fewer responsibilities to other humans, my normal hours of sleep were 4am to 12pm.

Time and circumstance has modified all that, of course; now its 2am to 8.30am. Cutting back on sleep hasn't really led to any productivity gains though - I rarely have a sentient thought before 10am. My brain still gets 8 hours, though the body has learned sleep-dressing and transport management.

I can't really help it, and to be honest, I don't want to change. These hours of solitude and focus have been the most productive of my life. I reckon I wrote most of my PhD between 10pm and 1am. I guess I'd like to know there are others out there still staying up, despite careers and so on. Perhaps well into middle age!

For example, I suspect my men HET here, princes of Dutch 60s freakbeat, still kick it late*. Now that semester two is nearly done I'm hoping to be back here (at Fort Segue) more often. Check it out!


* Hat tip to my bro, aka The World of Yentl, for putting me on to this ace track.

Fathers & Daughters

So, I was chatting with my bro (in the normal, non-NZ sense) today, who is recently the father of a baby girl, and has a son a fair bit older. We were watching my daughter play, and I was talking about the relative lack of weight of expectation on father/ daughter relationships. When I'd raised the same theme at other times - prior to his daughters birth - it didn't seem to ring any bells for him - but today it did.

Of the four parent/ child combos, it really is the one least dwelt on by popular culture, psychology, home spun theory and general folk wisdom of the ages. And in my experience, that's been the great thing about it. Makes it a lot easier.

Of course, it's a relationship that can be majorly screwed up, like any other, sometimes in utterly horrific ways - but aside from those awful cases, there aren't a lot of negative stereotypes attached to it. 'Daddy's girl', for example, is fairly neutral where 'Mummy's boy' most certainly isn't. Then there's the inherent role-modelling pressure of of father-son, mother-daughter relationships; so frequently subject to the 'individualise-via-conflict' vibe, sooner or later. And no offence, Mums, but in my experience there's virtually no limit to the matters affecting a boy's life that his mother won't feel absolutely entitled to dip her oar in the water about. Even well into his 30s*. Bless 'em.

Whereas there's just no point even asking Dad about tricky girl-to-woman stuff. He won't have a clue. And most importantly: that's understood - by both parties.

Nothing to offer but love.

I hope no one gets offended by the above. But I write here in defence of father-daughter relationship. Against its broad cultural neglect. It rules.

* There is a some possibility the author generalises unduly from personal experience here.

Back at Work

And can't be arsed!

I've had a great couple of weeks in the Asia-Pacific region on various work missions, followed by a short holiday in Rio de Brisbaneiro - which was just long enough to get the flu, basically.

Back at work now, and not doing a very good job of impersonating someone who cares about semester two, and its looming deadlines. Sniffle. Groan.

I guess I'll sleep my way out of this slump over the coming days. Any tips on how to appear engaged?

Anyway - check it out! On my spare day, I snorkeled on this wrecked WW2 Japanese landing craft at Ironbottom Sound near Honiara, Guadalcanal, in the Solomon Islands. Full of coral, rainbow fish, and the rusting detritus of Imperial visions.

Ironbottom Sound, as you may know, is so named after the sheer number of US, Japanese (and one Australian) vessels sunk there in the Battle of Guadalcanal in 1942 - widely regarded a major turning point in the Pacific War, and the first major allied victory over the Japanese. There's an impressive US memorial on the hill above Honiara, which commemorates the major sea and land battle to capture Henderson airport and other Japanese-held areas of Guadalcanal.

Auto-reply: Out of Office

BmL is currently out of the office, and at large in the region. Any urgent matters can be raised via the fort-gate comments & suggestions box, below, and will be attended to by a special intergovernmental taskforce, in due season.

The Origin of Tuesday

Miss LE (etymological warrior, of but 5 summers): Daddy, what does Friday mean?
LE: Its named after a God from the olden days, sweetheart. Freya's day, a Norse Goddess.
Miss LE: What's Norse?
LE: Norse means from Norway.
Miss LE: What about Wednesday?
LE: That's Woden's day. Another Norse God. All the days are named liked that, or after the sun or moon. I don't know what Tuesday is named after though.

[pause]

Miss LE: ...it sounds like Cheese.
LE: Ok
Miss LE: Yeah, there was a Cheese man in the olden days, daddy.
LE: [LOL outbreak]
Miss LE: And he was a God. The Morse God of Cheese. OK?
LE: [pulling car over to recover] OK sweetheart.
Miss LE: .....Why are we stopping?

Brisbane: Before the Saints & Go-Betweens

Growing up in Brisbane didn't always seem so great at the time. The big bands didn't drop through, pot was not only illegal but seriously draconian penalties attached, and demonstrations were essentially banned. I remember going with Mum to bail my old man in 1978 after after one of the endless - and illegal- civil liberties marches. Queensland, police state, demand the right to demonstrate. That's etched in my mind. Ten years later it was me at the demos, and everything was still the same. On the street and the state is not neutral. Chanting the same as my Dad had. Intoxicating... frightening. Then the inevitable blue shoulder charge, and we're running down the slope through Albert Park, someone's screaming. Its scarcely credible in retrospect.

What a hick town.

I'm so glad I was there.

The first gig I went to as an adult was at the Roxy (now the Arena) in early 1986 - I think it was the Huxton Creepers. I was 17 and the Valley by night was intoxicating. Its still had a serious air of danger then - and halfway through the gig I witnessed a classic pre-Fitzgerald Quinceland scene. To my left one of the walls in the Roxy literally opened up, and out strode Gerry Bellino, puffing on a fag. Behind him I could see an illegal casino, hidden in the walls. He didn't care, he spoke to some staff and casually sauntered back in. The door closed and the Creepers played on. Business as usual.

Anyway, among my Dad's records which were otherwise exclusively 50s jazz was a Brisbane band. Who knows upon which of the 1000 balmy, narcoleptic nights of adolescence in '80s Brisbane I first played it - but this magnificent track has always stuck in my mind. Before the Saints, and the Go-Betweens there was Carol Lloyd and Railroad Gin. Dad must have seen them live circa '75 and I suspect, been as blown away by this track as I was: Matter of Time.

Deux Oiseaux

So, if you're up late preparing a course for Semester One, then we are deux oiseaux of a feather. I don't know if I've ever mentioned how much I love France Gall on the blog before [*cue game show buzzer sound*] but this is a tres happy song, which is a fine brain curative for those currently locked in a steamy tryst with a course guide, of no fixed endpoint.

And I'll tell you another thing, the French have got this much right: plurals are groovier when ending in "eaux".

Thanks a Pantload...

...to the junkie loser who broke into Keating Towers today, stole my new Acer Aspire mini-laptop (mine for but 10 summer days), took my daughter’s piggy bank, and worst of all - made me miss the one-time-only Triffids reunion gig I was just about to go to with a friend, when Ms LE rang with the news.

However, the final victory of this long, blistering summer day is mine. My four year old made it all better with this line: "daddy, tomorrow I'll get out my magnifying glass, and we'll solve this mystery...".

HAHAHA! Take that junkie loser.

Oh and cheers to the phone guy at Ticketmaster for the full and immediate refund on the Triffids tix he organised, against their own general refund policy. Really wasn’t expecting that touch of humanity on a paint-peelingly torrid 43 degree day like this.

Adelante.

New Year's Resolutions

In 2009, I promise to:
* listen to more France Gall
* watch more 70s Australian film
* visit more Portuguese forts in Asia

Hoho! No, but seriously, I resolve to:
1. Argue less, and yell less when doing so (born and bred on conflict models, you see)
2. Lose weight; though losing height might be as realistic.
3. Live to the point of tears (Camus); or at least to the point of mild chafing.

Happy 09, punters! Aos fortalezas!!

Magic Realist Moment

You know, I'm a bit of a fan of magic realism. Not as a genre, really. Its more that I happen to be a fan of both Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Jose Saramago, and both authors happen to be - more or less - in the magic realist realm.

And here's a magic realist moment, from my own back catalogue. In 1998, after training a few disability support workers in Toowoomba, I was driving back home, down the mountain towards Brisbane. As I passed through Gatton, or thereabouts, and the only car on my side of the road, a huge cloud of white butterflies emerged from the fields and floated across the highway. Sheets of fluttering white wings in the yellow sunshine. There were literally thousands of them, tossed like flotsam on air currents, a mass folding in on itself, expanding, contracting, swerving, fleeing, like an airborne school of fish.

There were so many of them that after about ten seconds, I could no longer see, and had to switch on the windscreen wipers. Driving at 100 kilometres per hour, wiping away white butterflies like snow.

True story.