August 3rd, 2007


The Week Can Finish

One of my ex-girlfriends was one of those writers who wrote a lot, but never let anyone read it. She still is. She writes for herself, and not publication, as she doesn't want to deal with that, and in the last couple of days, I've been starting to think that her point of view isn't looking too bad.

On the train station last night, I sat in the dark and on one of the benches, and I felt tired at life. Not tired of life, tired at having to do it.

This week alone, I've been food poisoned, had to deal with crazy parents who want me to teach their child the HSC english curriculum in eight weeks, and done the whole book thing, which was twenty-four hours of fight music and popularity. In that time, I actually slipped on some water, and ended up on my back, like I was some eighty-three year old man. It's been forever since I slipped on something--I had forgotten the way everything slows down for you, how you try to gain your balance while also try to land on something in your body that won't break. My bones are strong and ugly, so I was fine, but I twisted my leg round, and fucked up my shoulder, and I've been limping round for the last two days. I feel like I've been in a fight, which is kind of funny, when you think about it. Then there was finding people who want me to do work for them, which took a while, and I was never sure if the money was coming, and I kind of need cash, after the tickets for the States and losing some hours at the slowly sinking, soon to have no children tutoring centre I work at a couple of days. I'm not not thinking I'll be in that job much longer, so I need to pick up outside work, which isn't too much of a trouble, but--

Well, it leaves you all feeling tired. Fucking tired.

You want to hear something funny?

About once a week, someone tells me how well things are going for me, how I'm on the cusp on something big, how I'm on my way somewhere. Where? Well, who knows. No one ever says and I never ask; but seriously, it's once a week. I could time my weeks on it. It is, of course, real nice of people to say, and I'm always appreciative of it, but it's impossible to believe. I figure it's the nature of people, however, to look over at someone else and think that they over they're doing well. The grass is greener, and all that. Well, I'm here to assure you that it's not green, so not, and there's no grass. In fact, there's just a tired, tired guy who, the moment he finishes this, is going to go and make some lunch and receive some more phone calls from crazy parents, and he's going to limp as he does it, too.
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Black Sheep Review

A review for Black Sheep:

Set in a dystopian future, Black Sheep chronicles the downfall of narrator Isao Dazai, who is "convicted of being Japanese" in Asian-Sydney. Multiculturialism is now considered a disease for which the only cure is ruthless segregation. We're in Orwellian territory here, with routine surveillance of citizens by cameras, microphones, and powerful masked Segregators, and a history and culture that's tailored to your ethnic origin, which in turn dictates where you can live.


Peek's writing is tolerable but not stellar, and is plagued by repeated homophone errors--"too" for "to" being perhaps the most egregious. The future world is well imagined, if implausible--who watches all the footage? listens to all the tapes?--and there's excellent irony here and there, but the plot relies on at least one far-fetched coincidence and the characterisations are not strong. Isao's character in particular can't carry the narrative.

If you're a fan of dystopias, you'll probably want to add this to your collection; otherwise, it's a suitable read for a train journey or rainy night.


(The review does have spoilers, though not much, since it's not that big a review. It's a lukewarm one, yeah, but that happens. I guess we can say it didn't work for her.)