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The Past | The Previous

F is for Fake

Father - My Father died when I was nine, one month past his fortieth birthday, if I remember correctly. It was cancer, twenty years ago. Like everyone who dies before their time the story is quite tragic, but not of particular interest to anyone but me, since terminal illness is a narrative that has never recognised the need for car chases and romance and a really sweet explosion at the end. To tell you the truth, I had forgotten that this year marked the twentieth anniversary, which in itself gives me pause. Should it matter? Answers for everyone, I imagine. It doesn't matter to me. I can write about accepting and grief and all that, but it would be a lie. At nine, I did not know my Father. At twenty nine, he's not even a figure in my life.

Fire - Along with my friend D, I once set a field on fire. It was the summer school holidays. The grass was yellow and dry. We were bored. One day, we found a lighter, and decided that we would go down to a construction site, and see what we could burn. Such is the logic of the bored teenager. On the way to the site, we crossed over a grass basin, which was used to keep water when the surrounding areas flooded. For some reason, we stopped here, first, a lit the fire. Just thrust the lighter into the grass. We had a plan to stamp it out with our feet, but it didn't work, and as anyone who has stood in a field of dry grass knowns, stamping on a quickly spreading fire is generally unhelpful. Within minutes, the neighbourhood had come out to watch, and when we were questioned, we blamed it on someone else.

Fuck, the Overture -

FUCK!


Ford, Jeffrey - Born in 1955, American author Jeffrey Ford is representative of a new image within the speculative fiction field. Possessed with a style that adapts itself with seeming easy to various genres and subgenres, Ford's fiction steps back from the excesses of a genre that has become, more often than not, associated with Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, and others that, with their simplistic morales and colourful backdrops, have more in common with children's literature than that for adults. Perhaps most significant to this change in the genre, however, are Ford's weekly journey's into International waters, where he rescues children and horses from pirates. When asked about how this influences his writing on the eve of May 11th, 2002, a then bloody and tired Ford is reported to have said to a journalist, "I don't know where you got this idea from. I never did learn to read."

Fiction, the World - There are people (and by this, I mean, not me) who can't read fiction. They don't like it. It's fake, they say. They don't like the fakeness. The books they buy are non-fiction: autobiographies, references, travel books, bibles. For fun, you might like to point out how many of these books use fictional techniques to create a believable vision of the real world. When they protest, ask how it is that one can really know that Jeff Buckley's boots filled with water when he drowned, as is written at the start of Dream Brother, by David Browne.

Fiction, the Person - My name is Ben Peek. You are reading is an autobiographical account of my life. Everything is one hundred percent true. The letter 'R' deals with my time in rehab, and the letter 'P' my time in prison, and the letter 'N' how I escaped a Nazi concentration camp. Flip forward. Read them at your leisure.

Farr, Russell - I first met editor and publisher Russell B. Farr in Canberra. The first thing I noticed about Russell was that his hands had been replaced with wooden mechanisms. It is rumoured that he once owed money to Union bosses but could not make the payments. To shake his hands now is a cold, unpleasant experience, and to watch him rip open fruit a strangely disturbing one. It does not matter the fruit--be it apple, orange, mandarin--he rips it open in angry, jerking movements, allowing the juice slips down his smooth, polished fingers. He runs Ticonderoga Publications.

Fuck, the Refusal -

FUCK YOU!


Frost - When I wake up, I am sometimes covered in a thin layer of frost. Winter, summer... it doesn't matter.

Fate - At the beginning of this entry, I make mention to my father dying before his time. But how, really, do I, or anyone, know this? What is the time for death? In the morning, in the evening? I remember once being told people mostly die in the early hours of the morning, but I found that to be a rather pointless topic of research. But beyond that, the question is: are you suddenly ready to die at the age of eighty five, rather than at the age or forty? Is it less of a tragedy to die older because this is seen as the end of your life and because everyone around you believes that you have lived your life, while at the age of forty, we all believe that the individual involved had a lot more living to do? But isn't this judgment, really, quite a strange one for us to make? Isn't life and death, no matter the age, intimately personal, and the judgment on if a life is lived or not only one that the individual experiencing that life can say? At which point did you or I become able to judge if it was before time or not for someone to die?


Previously,

A
B
C
D
E

Comments

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kazzibee
May. 15th, 2006 06:29 am (UTC)
you are frosted......like a krispy kreme?

and fuck you too.
punkrocker1991
May. 15th, 2006 10:09 am (UTC)
"The first thing I noticed about Russell was that his hands had been replaced with wooden mechanisms."

And I was hoping you'd noticed my warm smile and overlooked such things ;)
benpeek
May. 15th, 2006 11:13 am (UTC)
sorry. no. i notice the little things.
kazzibee
May. 15th, 2006 11:47 am (UTC)
what? overlook krispy-kreme-style frosting? no way! that stuff is tasty!
benpeek
May. 15th, 2006 11:12 am (UTC)
frosted with ice. i don't want to be eaten by you, giant lady ;)
kazzibee
May. 15th, 2006 11:48 am (UTC)
hahaha giant lady! haha.

and anyway, fuck you too, coz i like ice too. yeah, raspberry vodka slushees mmmmmmmmm.

bodhichitta0
May. 15th, 2006 05:16 pm (UTC)
"At nine, I did not know my Father. At twenty nine, he's not even a figure in my life."

A void is still a figure. You can still feel a cobweb on your face. Nothing can be something sometimes. Just because it feels normal now doesn't mean the not-right isn't still there.

"But beyond that, the question is: are you suddenly ready to die at the age of eighty five, rather than at the age or forty? Is it less of a tragedy to die older because this is seen as the end of your life and because everyone around you believes that you have lived your life, while at the age of forty, we all believe that the individual involved had a lot more living to do? But isn't this judgment, really, quite a strange one for us to make? Isn't life and death, no matter the age, intimately personal, and the judgment on if a life is lived or not only one that the individual experiencing that life can say? At which point did you or I become able to judge if it was before time or not for someone to die?"

This ties into the ranking of importance in life. A 40 yo will get a lung transplant quicker than an 80 yo (unless they are rich). We say the younger the life the better, the more living to go, but then look at how we treat the children of the world. One more starving baby in Africa. One more HIV positive baby in Estonia.

I don't know.

New Rule: Never comment to Ben fresh out of visiting someone at the hospital.

benpeek
May. 16th, 2006 12:15 pm (UTC)
New Rule: Never comment to Ben fresh out of visiting someone at the hospital.

prolly a good rule :)
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