ISSUE TWO Lyre is an Australian-based independent literary journal. Operating on a not-for-profit basis, Lyre does not receive external funding. Subscription information and other details can be found at our website. EDITOR: Michael Holmes DESIGNER: Amy Christensen WEB: http://lyreblog.blogspot.com.au/ EMAIL: lyrejournal@gmail.com This compilation copyright ©Lyre Journal. Do not copy or redistribute without permission. All content copyright ©respective authors, artists, contributors. With thanks to: Liss Fenwick
‘The Ghostlands’ by Bettina Wild
THIS ISSUE THE SANDALWOOD RECORD SHOP Peter Ayscough ARTIST FEATURE Bettina Wild VIDEODROME Michael Holmes THUMPINGTON 1-5 Brendan Foley WALTER’S WORKSHOP Brendan Mitchell POETRY Jonathan Hadwen André Retrot Hamish Lancaster ISSUE #2 CONTRIBUTORS
PETER AYSCOUGH The sense of excitement balanced with apprehension that greets you on analmost daily basis; that steely taste in the teeth. These must be some of the things that distinguished the teen years from all those that follow. Later you learn to avoid assimilating new facts. You get to be good at dodging them, content with what you think you already know about the world. But as a young person, so many new possibilities come flying at you every day. So many new threats and opportunities, and such limited experience to draw upon to make decisions. You just follow the opportunities when you recognise them and run from the threats, ending up where you end up. I should have started 1982 in year eleven. Adults with the benefit of hindsight over their own lives had advised me to stick with school— I could probably get into Uni if only I was prepared to knuckle down for a couple more years, stick it out to the end of year twelve. But I hated it and got out after year ten, school
certificate in hand and the prospect of a job and money to spend on clothes, going out, records.... In a naïve, diluted, and pretty limited way, punk rock, and in short succession, post-punk had hit the northern suburbs of Sydney. I was part of the detritus swept up in it. My late ‘70s polite and scholarly persona, vague ambitions of becoming an Air Force officer or computer programmer, and John Denver haircut were swept aside in a heady flood of bands, bourbon, and boisterous companionship. I mixed with a bunch of mostly older friends; tallenough to usually get into the pubs in those more relaxed times. At sixteen I was the youngest staff member at the Balgowlah branch of the Commonwealth Bank of Australia. It had seemed, on leaving school and entering the workforce, as though the gap of oceans separating me from places where exciting and worthwhile things were happening to exciting and
worthwhile young people, would somehow disappear. Life would be legitimised and come to resemble those much more interesting lives lived by people in music magazines. Surprisingly though, the northern suburbs of Sydney did not magically come to resemble Liverpool, Manchester, London, or New York. Balgowlah, Sydney still felt like Balgowlah, Sydney, and had little to do with the elaborate post-modern musical experiments happening overseas. As the weeks turned into months, the promise working life had held— the prospect of a weekly wage opening the door to a more exciting and authentic kind of life— didn’t really materialise. The lens that makes the early ‘80s now appear misty and vintage; that makes events in another time seem as though they happened in another world, is a distorting lens. If you weren’t around in 1982 and want to know how life felt in those distant times, take a walk in Balgowlah today. Nothing has changed. A laconic, comfortable,
afternoon sun shines on pensioners as they make their way to the bank to cash their pension cheques. Cars stop and start along Sydney Road, impatient to be somewhere else, driver’s eyes forward, not noticing—nothing to notice. At lunchtimes I would make my way through this cultural desert, under the shop awnings, across Condamine Street, and a few shops farther down to a little oasis. The shop had black windows you couldn’t see inside and a door thick with layers of re-paint. Opening it, a little Tibetan bell tinkled and you were absorbed into the atmosphere of sandalwood incense, exotic music posters, and good records, the outside world a universe away. Enticing sounds from across the ocean: Gang of Four, The Fall, The Cure, or Siouxsie and the Banshees emerged from speakers in some unseen corner. A small stack of the latest edition New Musical Express on sale on the counter. The friendly shopkeeper, 30-something and usually wearing a new band T-shirt,
was happy to play and talk about the stuff he liked. I, in my cheap polyester business shirts, was an acolyte at his feet. * * * After 8 or 9 months I left the bank and returned to high school, metaphorical tail between legs. The experiment had failed. I completed year twelve with unexceptional grades and moved across town into a dilapidated flat in Randwick. My travels didn’t take me through Balgowlah any more. I shed my connections with the North Shore and forgot about the sandalwood record shop. Years later, after moving to Brisbane, married and with a baby, my wife and I drove back down to Sydney for a long weekend and, becoming panicked over new highway conditions on the north side of the Spit Bridge, I took an unfamiliar exit and found myself back on Sydney Road for the first time in years. Convinced everything would have changed, the bank
probably replaced now by a McDonalds; the sandalwood record shop, in all likelihood, now a tax accountant, I was silently amazed to see it all still there. The black windows concealing unknown new treasures. I had the strongest compulsion to pull the car over, to become absorbed again into that sweet, arcane atmosphere, but there were no parking spots, and the baby was sleeping.
BETTINA WILD
Homeland
Addressing Stars
The Ghostlands
Videodrome David Cronenberg, 1983
Videodrome OVERSTIMULATION AND VIDEO PROPHECY 30 YEARS ON Max: “You know what Freud would have said about that dress.” Nicki: “And he would’ve been right. I admit it. I live in a highly excited state of overstimulation.” Max: “Listen, I’d really like to take you out to dinner tonight...” A flustered talkshow host turns to a television set. “Professor O’Blivion, do you think that erotic TV shows and violent TV shows lead to desensitisation?” “The television has become the retina of the mind’s eye. That’s why I refuse to appear on television, except on television.” This is Cronenberg’s nightmare. Videodrome is a stylish 1983 sci-fi horror flick whose morals seem creepily styled to some parallel universe of contemporary Western TV culture. Rolling out like a bad VHS hallucination, the story takes us through a layered dream of S&M, sabotage, and global conspiracy. As Max’s take on reality starts to spiral and fracture, Cronenberg asks us what we really understand about the influence of television on our senses. The metaphor of mind control is apt, and the ongoing debate around desensitisation has never been more relevant. Videodrome is all about the next stage: censorship, law, government control, human evolution—it’s a race for the prize. The world of Videodrome is a world corrupted by an overstimulated society. Bored of TV sex and violence, people crave the next breakthrough, the next stage of stimulation. It’s this breakthrough that Max Renn finds while recording international programs through a pirate satellite dish. In the darkness of the plotless violence Max stumbles across Videodrome. Max: “Do you know a show called ‘Videodrome’?” Masha: “Video what?” Max: “Videodrome. Like video circus, video arena. Do you know it?” Masha: “No.” Max: “It’s just torture and murder. No plot, no characters. Very, very realistic. I think it’s what’s next.” Masha: “Then God help us.”
The ‘70s was scattered with cheap, poor quality but excessively violent films: the so-called “video nasties”. These films concerned only with plotless violence are a real thing of our world, and they have their adoring audience. But Videodrome was also prophetic. In the last decade we’ve seen a resurgence of the “video nasty” with torture porn flicks such as Hostel, Saw, and The Human Centipede receiving popular appeal; it seems Cronenberg’s vision wasn’t so far off the mark. Videodrome isn’t just stimulation, it’s mutation. The symbolic benign growth that forms in the viewers’ brain is a physical manifestation of mental change. It’s the mind growing to accommodate a new level of stimulation, and, in the wrong hands, is the first level of mind control. As Max’s hallucinations grow stranger, Videodrome calls on the video medium’s favorite device, and
we’re never certain what is “truth” and what is symbolic hallucination. We’re trapped in that liminal space between reality and unreality, where Cronenberg keeps us wondering right until the end. Videodrome is a witty film. It’s clever, funny, yet still scary. The horror, I think, lies in the truth it offers around the shadows of humanity: our atavistic, obscured lust for violence, and the ongoing social politics around desensitisation. Yet it is also about sabotage, about government mind control, and a healthy dose of whodunnit. 30 years on, Videodrome still delivers an intense ride all the while creating a hazy space for you to sit back and think over the role television plays in our lives. “Television is reality, and reality is less than television.” — Michael Holmes
THUMPINGTON 1-5 BRENDAN FOLEY
WALTER’S WORKSHOP
BRENDAN MITCHELL
A thousand hands ticked to the side as Walter placed another cog in the small wristwatch. His brow furrowed in concentration, it occurred to him just how noisy time was, as he sat in the middle of his workshop. Of course, the thought occurred to him everyday as he worked away, building watches and clocks. The incessant ticking of the work that covered his walls bothered him sometimes, heightening the pressure when he was a little behind. Other times he would sit back, close his eyes and just listen, soothed by the sound of his own workmanship. Screwing the back onto the watch, he returned it to his wrist. It was the first watch he’d ever made, and, naturally, after fifty years it needed a little repair every now and then. Walter, too, felt a little in need of repair. His eyesight was fading, and his hands were less steady than they once were. He sometimes fantasized about opening his own back and replacing the various cogs and parts he imagined were inside. His aging eyes wandered to the faded poster above the door. A black and white photo of St. Mark’s Clock in the Piazza san Marco, Venice, Italy. Walter had dreamt of travelling there when he was younger, but he’d never found the time. Even in Walter’s workshop, time was as elusive as a wisp of smoke. Walter wasn’t always a clockmaker; he’d started out as a watch repairman, back when his workshop was just a fold-up table in the middle of a shopping complex. Gradually he had began building watches, and eventually moved on to clocks. At thirty, he started his own workshop, and it had thrived consistently ever since. His art was precise and time-consuming, so expanding his business into a franchise had always been unlikely. Nonetheless, Walter was happy with his small workshop, and the hundreds of clocks and watches that littered his walls and shelves. Walter’s eyes fell to the tall-case clock that stood by the door. A grandfather clock. It was Walter’s masterpiece. He’d
spent years on it, varnishing the wood, tightening the cogs, polishing the swinging gold pendulum till it shone in the light. Walter was a grandfather too, but like a great tide, time had swept away what he’d left unattended. His wife had left a long time ago, and his children avoided their estranged father as much as they could. He’d seen his grandchildren only once or twice. Small clocks lay on the wall bearing their names. Lilly. Benjamin. He’d originally built them as gifts, but Walter had either missed the birth, or was uninvited. Sometimes Walter would sit and watch the two clocks on the wall, smiling the way a grandfather does as he watches children play. Working as a clockmaker meant Walter always knew the exact time. Like clockwork, Walter would close the shop for half an hour everyday at precisely 12:02pm and eat his lunch: a corned beef sandwich. Occasionally the routine grew monotonous, so Walter would change the time of all the clocks in his workshop, in an attempt to trick himself. It never worked, however. Whether they were seven minutes behind, or three minutes forward, the clocks on the walls could never fool Walter’s internal clock. It was always right, always exact, right to the second. Always in control. The seventh customer of the day entered the shop at 12:44pm. The bell above the door tolled loudly, and Walter’s heart rate increased. Time had made him weary of strangers. What was once charm had festered into cautiousness, and Walter found himself disliking most of his customers. He simply preferred the company of his clocks. The seventh customer was a woman in her late thirties. She was dressed immaculately: a string of pearls hung from her neck, and her rich fur coat smelt strongly of perfume. Her high heels clapped loudly on the workshop floor, irritating Walter like a fly buzzing too close to the ear. The woman’s long brown hair shimmered in the workshop light as it grazed her shoulders, and flowed down her back. The woman perused the walls for several minutes, slowly finding her way to Walter, sitting uncomfortably at his desk. She finally entered his proximity, and he obligingly stood up, forcing a smile. “May I help you?” “Yes, I need a clock. It’s a gift for my nephew.” “Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Walter came to the front of his desk, and joined the woman as she walked through the shop, shoes clapping. “Some of these clocks are delightful.” “Thank you.” Walter was two inches shorter than the woman, and he felt uncomfortable. He reassured himself by staring at her heels, imagining how small she would look without them, and how he would loom above her.
“My nephew is quite upset with me, I completely forgot his birthday last year. I thought I should make it up to him with something special,” she said, brushing strands of shimmering hair from her face. “Time heals all wounds,” replied Walter, with a worn smile. The woman forced a laugh. The woman’s eyebrows arched high above her eyes, giving her a constant look of condescension. Walter didn’t like her eyebrows. In fact, he despised everything about her. Her brown, shimmering hair. Her clapping high heels. The fur coat that covered her long, thin neck. But most of all, Walter despised the way she looked at him. Every glance she gave, every question she asked, was tainted with disgust. Disgust, or pity. The surprise on her face at the quality of Walter’s clocks was satisfying, but did little to quell his urge to ask her to leave. Eventually they approached the end of the shop, and Walter’s beautiful, tall-case clock. The woman’s eyes lit up, and a slender hand rose to her pointed chin. Walter observed her fascination, and his heart beat a little faster. “This is truly beautiful,” The woman said, softly. Walter panicked at the prospect of losing his favourite piece in the whole workshop.
“It’s very expensive.” The woman’s eyes lit up at the challenge. “How much?” “I’m not sure I…” “How much?” She insisted. The woman readjusted the large fur coat around her neck, and seemed to grow even taller. “What I mean is, the clock is not ready for sale,” Walter replied. “It looks fine to me,” the woman snorted, opening her purse. “I’m sorry. It’s not for sale.” Walter said this softly, yet sternly, before returning to his desk. After a minute of pretending to work, Walter noticed the woman was still standing in the shop, staring at him. “I’ll pay any price,” she said, louder now. The woman’s stare was no longer tainted with disgust, or pity. There was a hint of respect in her cold, blue eyes as she stared Walter down. The woman walked towards him, her heels applauding. She placed her chequebook on Walter’s desk, and scribbled in it. She ripped out the small piece of paper, a blank cheque, and held it out in front of Walter, still staring into his old, weak eyes. It felt to Walter like the woman could see the various cogs and gears inside him, grinding and ticking together in perfect harmony.
Such strong, blue eyes. Walter felt his cogs jam, and the gears stop grinding. His heart stopped ticking. Slowly he was breaking down, one piece at a time. Walter’s mind travelled to Venice. To pigeons fluttering, and strangers passing by. There he stood, in the centre of the Piazza San Marco. Beside him his wife, smiling, hair blowing wildly in the cool breeze. Brown, shimmering hair. Then, he was gone. A hospital, late afternoon. Walter’s daughter lay smiling in a bed, her hair still wet with sweat. In Walter’s arms, a babe. He stared into the child’s eyes. Strong, blue eyes. Then, he was gone. An old school hall, midsummer. Children danced on the stage, performing for a crowd of adults. Walter joined in on the applause, clapping loudly with shaking hands. Then, he was gone. Memories he never had, a life he never chose. He held them in his hand, on a small piece of yellowed paper, twenty years late. Walter returned to reality. To the stare of his seventh customer. To the faded photo above his door. To the ticking of his clocks. “Well then?” The woman said, impatiently. The ticking grew louder. Whispers. Walter looked around his shop. To the clocks on his walls, and on his shelves. To Lily, Benjamin, and the grandfather
clock. Suddenly, all Walter could hear was the ticking. A symphony! An orchestra! The most beautiful music he’d ever heard. “I’m sorry, not today,” Walter said, the hint of a smile creasing his wrinkled face. She stared at him for a moment, as disgust and pity crawled back into her eyes. Without a word she turned and left the store, clapped out by her own shoes. After the woman left, Walter grabbed the stepladder from behind his desk, and moved to the front door. Carefully, Walter removed the photo of St. Mark’s Clock from above the door. Folding it, he gently placed it inside a drawer. Walter sat down at his desk, to the pile of clocks and watches waiting to be fixed. First, though, he closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and listened. Moments like these, Walter loved most. With only the smell of his workshop and the ticking of his clocks to guide him, Walter felt timeless. Infinite. Free. As for the pile of clocks on his desk, for Piazza San Marco, and for his grandchildren…well, there would be time enough for that.
JONATHAN HADWEN
DISTANT SLEEP I came back from a distant sleep and I was cold. I had kicked off the sheets, and the woman in the apartment downstairs was coughing. I groaned at nobody, and rolled over. The fan turned – its breeze on my feet, my legs, my chest. My open eyes waited for the sting.
ANDRÉ RETROT
TEASPOONS let us fall then, you and I fall into each other like clichés into their soft sleep let us float neatly up to be blended by the ceiling fan settling back intermingled and calm two Starbucks cups in the gutter we will utter those words we utter measure out the hours with Kleenex and whispered crime we will be fine, we will be fine until the day ebs at our toes and the night flows into our cheeks like wine
HAMISH LANCASTER
TRAVELLING WORDS Shadows glide over reflected fragments of the view outside. This vehicle moves in a loop, collecting some passengers, and leaving some behind. A book, barely lit by the window, drowns out the journey with words. A makeshift bookmark, a recycled price tag, held gently between two fingers, bright yellow, covered in tiny printed text of it's own. Larger words reach out and rotate out of sight as billboards and signs roll in and out of view. I've got my favourite music playing in my cheap headphones while I travel to meet you. I've run out of words, surrounded by them, they add up and some don't mind being left over. Guided gently by this sound, a second loop of transport, light, shade, heat and sound. I'll write a few down, just a few.
#2 CONTRIBUTORS PETER AYSCOUGH A shirt bio My shirt was made in a shirt factory in Bangladesh and was shipped to Australia where it sat on a rack in Myer until they discounted it enough for me to buy it. That was about 4 years ago. Since then my shirt has been worn by me many times and has faded quite a lot. The collar is a bit thin and frayed and it's probably just a matter of time until I drop it into a Lifeline bin.
BETTINA WILD Visual Art (digital illustrations) Bettina is an Australian artist from a realm of starlit dreams. She loves vibrant colour, vivid imagination and inspiring happiness in viewers of her work.
BRENDAN FOLEY Brendan Foley is a Brisbane based artist. You can stay up to date with Thumpington and also help validate his existence by liking his Facebook page at facebook.com/thumpington
BRENDAN MITCHELL Brendan Mitchell is a 20 year old Brisbane based freelance writer. He has recently completed a bachelor of fine arts majoring in film, and is currently working on a screenplay.
JONATHAN HADWEN Jonathan Hadwen is a Brisbane poet. He was recently named runner-up in the Arts Queensland Thomas Shapcott Poetry Prize for an unpublished manuscript.
ANDRÉ RETROT AndrÊ is currently on exchange in New Jersey, but lives in Bardon, Brisbane where he studies English Literature and Philosophy at the University of Queensland.
HAMISH LANCASTER Hamish has spent the last decade manipulating pixels for fun and profit. Hamish is training to become an Advertising Super Villain by pursuing his creative practice in video, motion graphics, interactive work and design any way he can. Hamish writes poetry as a way to release mental tension, some of it ends up being worth a read.