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Autumn steals in like a quiet
cat, looking for a warm place
to settle. On the mountains
in the copses and through the forests, the trees rustle
amongst themselves, and blush
at her touch. Do the beetles know
of this? I do not know, they talk
to their gods in tongues.
©ïž2019 K Price
This year, I avoided the poetry bashing workshops at the Sydney Writers’ Festival and attended a couple of interesting panel talks, one of whichâSecrets from the Crime SceneâI reviewed, and I thought I’d share it here.
Crime, it seems, pays handsomely for crime writers, not necessarily in hard cash but in endless material on the peculiar machinations of the criminal psyche. And mid-morning on this glare-bright winterâs day at the 2015 Sydney Writersâ Festival, The Theatre Bar at the End of the Wharf is packed to the raw, high rafters with an eclectic audience, from school-goers to retirees, dying to know more about what the panel facilitator, Tom Wright, refers to as âlife as they imagine it might actually be led away from their fairly safe existencesâ.
Competing with the hiss of the venueâs overworked espresso machine, the conversation nevertheless flows easily amongst the Secrets from the Crime Scene panel: Kate McClymont, Fairfax investigative journalist, known most recently for He Who Must Be Obeid, an exposĂ© on Sydney businessman Eddie Obeidâs corrupt dealings; Sarah Hopkins, criminal lawyer and fiction-crime author, her most recent novel being This Picture of You; and Michael Robotham, Australian journalist turned successful international crime writer, his latest book being Life or Death.
Kate, with her permanently quizzical left eyebrow, is an expert on the depths of Sydneyâs criminal undercurrents, from the murderous mentality of organised crime and bikie gangs to the sociopathic undertow of white-collar crime. The audience roars when she says, âOne of the things I really love about Sydneyâs criminals is they are so stupidâ. And vain: one of her regular informants, who was jailed for abducting Terry Falconer (subsequently murdered), whined to her that the actor portraying him in TVâs Underbelly: Badness âmakes me look like a gay porn starâ.
Michael says his books âtap into everyday fearsâ and that he often has to tone âdown the truth to make it palatable, because people will not believe it in a book of fictionâ, even though âtruth always, always proves to be strangerâ. Tom remarks on the frequent prescience in Michaelâs novels as is exemplified by the story Michael tells of The Wreckage, a novel that was based on the idea âthat $250billion of drug cartel money was laundered through major western banks, because during the Global Financial Crisis, banks were so short of funds, they waived all money-laundering laws simply to stay afloatâ. The novel was reviewed by an incredulous Joe Nocera, financial writer for The New York Times, who said that no major Western bank would launder money for a drug cartel; it simply wouldnât happen. With a larrikin air of perpetual amusement, Michael says that now every time thereâs a factual report of such events, he sends Joe a tweet: âSay it ainât so, Joe, say it ainât soâ.
Sarah, who has the demeanour of a meditating monk, rather than someone professionally mired in the mess of criminality and the constipated bureaucracy of social institutions, is more serious than the other panellists, but no less interesting. Through her creative writing, she questions who in our society gets to define what a crime is and the fact that, until recently, âcriminal law wouldnât reach its arm into the homeâ because âa crime, traditionally, has been about transgressions in the public realmâ. As Tom notes, her books are now very much focused on the notion that âthe place where your body and mental health is most likely to be at risk is in the homeâ, an unsettling thought.
In response to a question from the audience, Sarah says sheâs never been threatened by a reader, but Michaelâs tells of his stalker and many âangry emailsâ from Americans who objected to this line in an early novel: âsomething didnât quite look right, like seeing Bill Gates in board-shorts or George W. Bush in the White Houseâ. And then there is the intrepid Kate, who has had her fair share of legal action and life-threatening phone calls in the middle of the night.
Crime writingâitâs a dangerous but thrilling life.
Tom Wright, Michael Robotham, Kate McClymont, Sarah Hopkins
Falls Creek is a ski resort in the Victorian Alps, Australia.
In the off-season (i.e. any time that’s not winter) it’s great for mountain-biking, fly-fishing and hiking, as well as high-altitude training for crazy extreme runners and cyclists.
Accommodation-wise, we’ve stayed at Husky Apartments and QT and can recommend both for couples, particularly if you want to self-cater most of the time.
Although many of the resort facilities are closed outside of the ski season, the local supermarket is open most days, and a few of the restaurants run skeleton staff – in our experience, the staff of Stingray and The Last Hoot do an excellent job.
Off-mountain in the area, afternoon tea at Treats in Tawonga South is a must. Run by a welcoming, energetic team, the cafĂ© serves a wide variety of meals and cakes. And you can plan a flip at the local gliding club on the same day-trip (perhaps before you’ve eaten 
).
It’s the perfect place to give the lungs and the brain some fresh air.
For more entries to the WPC, see The Daily Post.
This rather prettier Autumn mess is evidence
of another avian feaster
doing fantastic gymnastics in the Camellia bushes
to get some yummy nectar
nom, nom
Delicious!
A Sure Sign of Autumn in the Antipodes
On a windless day, a rustle in the plane tree on the verge…
..hmmm, the frangipani still has some buds and blooms…
..but the Tibouchina’s showing signs of an imminent purple explosion…
..and there’s that familiar plop followed by those chatty squawky squeaks…
..which can only mean one thing…
..I know you’re in there…
Aha!
And who do you think’s going to clean up your Autumn feasting mess?
That’s your problem; I’m eating!
Day’s End – Falls Creek, Victorian Alps, Australia
For more entries to the Ephemeral WPC, see The Daily Post.
Sydney Opera House
For more entries to last week’s WPC, see The Daily Post.
..walking in the Spring sunshine
Fairy Bower Tidal Pool
For more entries to this week’s WPC, see The Daily Post.
Sludge has been building in my veins and arteries, the accumulation of sitting for weeks on end â working, studying, watching the entire series of ‘Breaking Bad’…
If you don’t start moving, you’ll have a stroke, and die, or worse: and live.
That nagging inner voice kicked me out of bed this morning to tackle what my husband calls the ‘Three Hill Challenge‘ â a 5km route in our neighbourhood, which includes three hills.
Well, that’s hardly a challenge.
I thought I’d do Hill One only today (don’t want to overdo things, after so much sloth) – it looks like this from the bottom.
I don’t remember it being so steep.
That’s what happens when you don’t exercise – your memory goes.
I prefer the view from the top.
And on the way down đ
I skipped Hill Two, but Chrissy Hynde and The Pretenders got me up Hill Three – it’s a deceptive but-wait-there’s-more kind of hill.
I suppose it’s a start.
Have a great weekend, and keep moving. đ
For more entries to this week’s photo challenge, see The Daily Post.
For more entries to this week’s photo challenge, see The Daily Post.
Ladies of the Wurst Kind
Weekend wine walkabout
lures the alter egos out
For more entries to this week’s WPC, see The Daily Post.
For more entries to this week’s WPC, see The Daily Post.
Moon Mosaic
I meet two girlfriends every few weeks in the city for a quick dinner and a movie. On Wednesday night, the weather was unseasonably warm, so it was wonderful out, and the big-faced moon took my breath away, hanging there in the sky, shining its magic over the water.
 ((((((((
Five wonderful works of art from this week’s WPC:
Slooooowly
My top five from this week’s WPC:
Of course, spring is nowhere to be seen right now in the Antipodes, so there aren’t any current suitable subjects, unless one thinks outside the spiral. And I’m (supposed to be) in the depths of a brain-clogging university assignment on business ethics, so am not in much of a lateral thinking mode. I took this one back in December at the Ashcombe Maze and Lavender Gardens on the Mornington Peninsula.
We played golf in Canberra this weekend, and this pink galah, in his lofty abode, was our audience on the 6th.
For more entries to this week’s WPC, see The Daily Post.
Abandoned: the word speaks of the ghosts of things, memories, people, activities, better times, and not a little sadness. A few weeks ago, my husband found this cicada exoskeleton still clinging to our garden fence, after its living contents had taken flight. So perfect in form and function, yet used no more.
Abandoned Cicada Exoskeleton
My five favourite interpretations from this week’s WPC:
Puncta Lucis
(Evokes wonderful images of mad-haired, smoking hacks, clacking away to meet their deadlines.)
On Dragonfly Wings with Buttercup Tea
(Who lived here? Where did they go? Why?)
Chronicles of Illusions
(A star that should have been.)
Picture the Pretty
(The tragic truth of many lives.)
365 Days of Thank You
(Reminds me of my first day of school, around 44 years ago, and the fact that BM tried to kiss me in the sandpit after the parents had left, haha.)
