Narrelle M. Harris's Blog, page 35

Genrecon 2013: A Lifting Experience

I have just returned from another fabulous GenreCon, hosted by the Queensland Writers Centre in sweaty Brisbane. I had a fabulous time! It was enormous fun, but also encouraging, supportive, amazing and educational.

I met so many incredibly talented people doing so many brilliant and amazing things, and who were happy to hear me talk about my Kitty and Cadaver project too. I’m fired up about the possibilities inherent in unusual storytelling projects being undertaken by people like Sue Wright of Tiny Owl and Jodi Cleghorn’s Piper’s Reach epistolary story, which started as an online project and is now being prepared for submission to publishers.

I have been energised and engaged by the speakers on the podiums and the ones I met during meal breaks and at the banquet. I am excited for other people’s books and as much so for my own. Sharing a room with Lindy Cameron, my publisher, has resulted in us becoming better friends as well. I made new friends, deepened acquaintanceships, learned about writing about publishing, had it at least confirmed that some of my approaches are the right ones and generally steeped myself in the rich soil of fellowship with others in my profession.

And I have so many new ideas! I’ll be meeting soon with someone to discuss a way to invite musicians to participate a little more in the world of Kitty and Cadaver. I have copious notes about creating a book trailer for future projects and some ideas of where I want to take that. I’ve joined the Romance Writers of Australia to learn how to become a better writer of romance and erotica, since I’m writing that these days (and enjoying it) and promptly came up with ideas for several new short and long stories. My main trouble now is finding the time to write. Or alternatively to sleep!

For those who follow my Twitter account (@daggyvamp), you’ll recognise the lame pun in the blog heading. For those who missed it, on the night of the Cutlasses and Kimonos banquet, a group of us got trapped in a lift for about twenty minutes.  One of our number, we discovered, was keenly claustrophobic, so there was a focus on staying calm and trying to help her. Apparently, we did this mostly by digging deep for our inner Laconic Aussie and tracking the whole experience on social media. We were all writers, so one or two folks tried to read books. The rest of us Tweeted and Facebooked, and fielded much so-called hilarity from friends who were not likewise trapped in a small, hot, humid lift.

At one stage, I took a photo of everyone (and most of us were dressed as pirates) giving the wags the finger and posted it on Twitter. The primary target, a horror writer and heavy metal fan from NSW (you know who you are), pretty much just roared with laughter and declared us ‘hardcore’.

We emerged mostly unscathed, though crumpled. And let’s face it – we’re writers. You can bet at least half of us have already worked out how to use the incident in a novel.

So thank you to Peter Ball and Meg Vann and their team of ninjas for a Genrecon that provided communion with like-minded folks, an excellent program, opportunities to find new projects and partners, and even provide a platform for adventures in elevators!

The next Genrecon won’t be held until 2015, which makes many of us a little sad. On the other hand – there’s no reason we can’t have impromptu get-togethers in the between times. So, if any of you Genrecon folks are in Melbourne and would like to catch up for coffee, chat and mutual energy boosting, drop me a line! We’ll find a time and place to make like cartoon superheroes and combine our energies to encourage awesomeness in each other.

Narrelle M Harris is a Melbourne-based writer. Find out more about her books, smartphone apps, public speaking and other activities at www.narrellemharris.com.

P.S. – Grammarly: 

I’ve been experimenting with an online tool called Grammarly (they promised me shinies if I did). It’s pretty neat. It helped me pick up some typos and check that when I vary considerably from correct grammar, the creative licence I employed really expresses what I wanted to say.  I could also run the text through a ‘Plagiarism’ algorithm, but mostly it just found I had quoted standard text from my own blog. It was more useful than I expected it to be, and I’ll use it again in future.  It could be handy for running manuscripts through before submissions.

And so, a little endorsement: “I use Grammarly’s plagiarism checker because with its Plagiarism algorithm I’ll at least know when I’m repeating myself.”

Melbourne Fringe Roundup 2

A second week of Fringe theatre has presented a wild array of shows, from vibrant storytelling to at least one show that leaves me torn between laughing uproariously and wanting to bleach my eyes,

Still running to 4 October is A Midnight Dreary, in which Stefan Taylor performs four short horror stories. In a Victorian-era style suit, he does a spirited and effective rendition of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, followed by Saki’s wickedly funny 1900 tale, the Open Window. Taylor takes on three roles for the telling of Ambrose Bierce’s The Moonlit Road before finally becoming child, parent and monster for Mark Newton’s 2010 horror tale, The House on the Lake.  The venue is in a tucked away warehouse in Coburg, and the walk down the dark cobblestone night cart lane to get there added a certain entertaining level of the collywobbles to the occasion.

Dropped is more traditional Fringe fair – surreal, brilliant and nigh unfathomable. Set in what seems to be a post-Apocalyptic world, two women argue and weave fantasies, apparently abandoned to the base they are meant to secure. The snow they catch on their tongues isn’t snow, and the babies they talk about aren’t real. Until one of them is. Maybe. And the enemy is still out there, perhaps. There are spine-crawling signs that a trap has been set. That’s what I thought, at least. Overall, I got a sense of the play as a feminised take on a post-apocalyptic world (as opposed to the frequently action-packed and gun-totin’ kind of post-apocalypse we usually see). Katy Warner’s play is funny and puzzling and atmospheric, and I loved it, even if I don’t really know what it was about.

The Fringe has always been a bit of sampler bag for what you might see at the Comedy Festival or Midsumma, and Black Faggot could easily be at home in either festival. Iaheto Ah Hi and Taofia Pelesas have terrific chemistry in a series of lightning fast, gorgeously funny and sometimes poignant sketches of what it’s like to be queer and Polynesian. The two take on a variety of recurring roles and situations, including the ‘undercover brother’ James, the houseproud Rob, the fragile Christian praying to God to make him straight and others. Favourite scenes include Rob and the hapless Mike, James’s coming out to his body-building brother, and the guy who is sick of listening to his straight mate’s graphic tales of sexual conquest and insists on sharing his own one-night-stand glory.

Unsex Me is a bit more complex, and it’s certainly not for the faint hearted. Mark Wilson plays actress Mark Wilson (beard and all) in this one man show exploring celebrity, gender roles, sexuality and Lady Macbeth. I laughed and was vastly entertained, but my goodness, the long and very detailed simulated solo sex scene, with prop (which frankly didn’t look all that simulated from where I was sitting) made for confronting theatre. I still can’t work out if it’s an act of sort of joyful courage or blatant overindulgence. Wilson asks a lot of questions, it seems, about sex, gender and sexuality without necessarily giving us any answers. It’s a bravura performance nevertheless, and if nothing else, there’s a fabulous section on the death of the Macbeths’ child and its impact on the characters and their choices. So there’s that.

A Midnight Dreary (till 4 October)
Dropped (till 5 October)
Black Faggot (till 5 October)
Unsex Me (till 5 October)

Narrelle M Harris is a Melbourne-based writer. Find out more about her books, smartphone apps, public speaking and other activities at www.narrellemharris.com.

Melbourne Fringe Roundup 1

I am a wanderer returned from her travels, but there’s no rest for the compulsive Doer of Things. No sooner am I back on home soil than I’m switching to my reviewer hat and braving the chilly Melbourne spring in the name of art and the Melbourne Fringe Festival.

The shows have been good in the first week of the festival, though not flawless. I’ve encountered one or two shows where the whole shebang is not quite as good as its component parts.

Kids Killing Kids is the story of four Australian playwrights who worked with a theatre company in the Phillipines on a stage adaptation of the Japanese book (and manga) Battle Royale. The show is pretty violent and in the context of the history of the Phillipines, some reactions to it from audiences and critics has been extreme.

The whole show has the four writers querying the nature of this violence and reactions to it, and questioning their responsibility as creators of the piece. They thought they were just making an exciting show, but they still can’t answer the oft-asked questions about why they did it.

Battle Royale of course predates the similar series The Hunger Games. I haven’t read the former, but the latter certainly examines its premise closely and explores themes of violence, political change, individual trauma and collective responsibility. That hasn’t stopped fanfiction that seems to be simply about kids killing kids, as though the readers kind of missed the point of it all.

So these playwrights raise and explore terrific questions on violence in art, how it reflects on violence in society and vice versa and, more broadly, the nature of responsiblity in creativity. (After all, aren’t the theatre company and actors, who are Filipino and obviously had more understanding of the cultural context in which they performed also responsible?) The show doesn’t provide answers, but at least it’s asking fascinating questions.

The Good Girl is a one act play set in a future where relationships are banned following a pandemic that killed millions. ONly the elite are allowed to breed. Here, a woman who handles a sexbot is visited by the man who maintains the machine. However, the woman is illegally assisting the robot to develop emotional responses. People are paying more for the experience, but they’re starting to demand more and more authentic responses. They start to demand fear -  and that, the robot must learn directly from her handler.

The acting is terrific, the concept intriguing, and yet the descent into aggression (or is it faux aggression?) and sexual violence and its consequences left me feeling adrift. What is being said about relationships and sexual violence? I felt to me that strong performances and a crisp, fast-paced script led to an emotional dead end. Perhaps that was the point.

FOMO – the Fear of Missing Out – also misses the mark for me. Zoe McDonald gives a ripping performance as a series of character, although several are based on outmoded stereotypes. The show, staged as a talk-back radio program, is lively and often funny, filled with anxious women and vajazzling. However, I’d gone expecting something about the concept of FOMO, which is a phenomenon behind our compulsive use of social media instead of doing something more sustained with our time.  The fault is probably more in my expectations than the show.

Mind you, if a dashing, fast-paced, hilarious one woman show with music, dozens of crisply deliniated characters and a strong plot is what you’re after, you should definitely see Death Rides a Horse. It’s my favourite show so far this festival, full of warmth, cursing, curses, Spanish accents and send-ups of western stereotypes all over the place. It has a great cinematic sensibility and really, I want to see the movie.

One final plug – and to fess up, this one was co-written by my brother-in-law John Richards. But, as I often say, just because I’m biased, it doesn’t mean I’m wrong, and the show Songs for Europe is two one-act plays taking a more serious look at Eurovision. The first sees a young reporter interviewing an aging singer about her greatest professional disaster – getting nil points in the competition. It’s a terrific look at failure, and how it doesn’t have to define you. The second story is about the true story of an uprising in Portugal, which was signalled when the country’s Eurovision entry was performed. Both are stories about human nature and hope, and I recommend them.

Book to see the shows:

Kids Killing Kids
The Good Girl
FOMO
Death Rides a Horse
Songs for Europe

Narrelle M Harris is a Melbourne-based writer. Find out more about her books, smartphone apps, public speaking and other activities at www.narrellemharris.com.

The Lady Novelist Fills in the Details

Diary: 6 to 10 September

I once heard it said that travel could be disappointing because no place could live up to the images you create in your head about a place.

I can’t agree. That feels like saying a book could never be as good as its 500-word précis.

I find that the images I have in my head – garnered through film and television, books, articles, travel anecdotes and photos – can never have the texture of the real environment. I certainly do picture places, and even have certain expectations, but I am aware that these are just ideas of a place. The location in my head is a mere preliminary sketch of someplace much more real.

One of the principal joys of travel for me is to be on the ground, to complete (and correct) that mental image with depth, taste, sound, scent. I want to know the fully flawed reality and not the shallow idealised postcard shot. I like to get away to local neighbourhoods, to catch local public transport, to see the streets beyond those made pretty and festive for the tourists.

Montreal is a city made for that kind of exploration. Like my hometown of Melbourne, this French-Canadian city is more about neighbourhoods and lifestyle than it is about grand buildings and must-see sites.

The first correction to the Montreal-in-my-head was the level of French signage I found. Having been part of the colony of New France, I expected Montreal to have signage in both English and French. I didn’t expect that a much higher percentage of the signage to be French-only. Hurrah for the easy bilingualism of the residents, especially as my mostly forgotten schoolgirl French is 33 years out of date and for a different dialect.

The effect was deliciously Twilight Zone-ish. A lot of Canada has that effect on me (it being North American but not US; being colonially linked to Great Britain, like Australia, but neither British nor Australian; having strong and abiding French roots especially in the east but not being European).

Montreal best exemplifies this between-worlds feeling, especially in the first day or so; but as it becomes more familiar, it also becomes more itself.

Like Melbourne, Montreal is a place of experiences rather than sights, and is a fabulous patchwork of districts. Its tourism heart in Old Montreal is reminiscent of streets I’ve explored in Central and Eastern Europe – a strange sensation in North America. It’s genteel and pretty though, and the buildings are beautiful.

The Latin Quarter isn’t beautiful, but it is fabulously lively. A ‘former’ red light district, the streets are filled with cheap eateries, buzzing entertainment venues and glorious street art – as well as many, many sex shops. Les Foufounes Electriques (the Electric Buttocks) is one of the most popular music venues, with a punk history and walls decorated with seriously Not Safe For Work art for sale. The vibe reminds me of Northbridge (Perth) in the 80s or a little of newish Melbourne venue, Revolt. It’s shabby-grunge-cool and robustly friendly.  (For a description of our night out in the Latin Quarter, read Tim’s blog post Red Light in the Latin Quarter.)

Mile End on Le Plateau has a more Fitzroy-ish feel, with hipsterish cafes serving good espresso coffee and with rival bagel bakeries testifying to the area’s Jewish past.

The Flavours of the Main food walk takes us through all these areas as well as Chinatown and later the Portuguese quarter. Our guide, Micheline, describes the city’s multicultural history through its food and distinctive neighbourhoods, feeding us fortune cookies, dragon’s beard sweets, poutine and smoked meat sandwiches along the way.

Slicing across Montreal on foot, seeing the grubby street level, the daily life of Montrealers, while learning a culture’s back story adds layers of knowledge and sensation to that sketchy idea of a city. Montreal becomes more solid and real by the moment.

Music is an important part of Montreal’s culture too, and is a key thing I wanted to experience. On our way to Les Foufounes Electrique, we came across a street festival for emerging music and stayed to dance and watch the light projections.

The summer weekly drumming circle, the Tam Tams, finds us in a park full of visitors and locals, all drumming or dancing or lying on the grass and listening to the rhythms. There’s a whiff of marijuana in the air, but mostly a cheerful energy that’s a little wild and a little mellow and feels somehow perfectly Montreal to me.

It’s a feeling that’s echoed later that night at the Piknic Electronique, another weekly summer music event held on St Helene’s Island under a giant statue that looks like an insectoid alien. We listen to international DJs and dance while watching the sun set on the city across the river. Again, the wild-mellow vibe, a combination of relaxed and friendly attitudes with a free-wheeling avante-garde sensibility, feels like an insight into this part of Montreal life.

Montreal is also filled with friendships. We had lunch one day with Susan, my online friend who drove two hours up from Ottawa so we could meet in person at last. We later had coffee and a long walk with Hugo, who works for Tourisme Montreal and who we met in Melbourne last year.

The Montreal-in-my-head is now more than a sketch, and while it’s not yet a completed artwork (I’ll have to go back and work on that) it has more depth, colour and texture than before. It’s more real than it was, and how could that be disappointing?

Thank you to Canadian Tourism Commission, Tourisme Montreal, Piknic Electronique and Flavours of the Main for hosting us. Thank you to Susan too for comi ng all that way to meet me!

Narrelle M Harris is a Melbourne-based writer. Find out more about her books, smartphone apps, public speaking and other activities at www.narrellemharris.com.

The Lady Novelist Explores the Dead Heart of Edmonton

Diary: 6 September

I gaze at my hands today with a certain trepidation. The insect bites I received at the Great Bear Lodge still cover my hands, and new bites have appeared on my arm and waist. Am I simply too tasty a treat for Canadian mosquitoes to ignore? Or am I, in fact, cursed?

As I prepared to depart from Edmonton, it seemed a fair question to ask, for Edmonton is known by another name: Dedmonton.

My first night in this deceptively lovely town was spent on the Edmonton Ghost Tour. Guide Nadine led us to sites of horrific true murders, tragic suicides and haunted buildings. Her wry and sassy wit and forthright delivery was an entertaining contrast to stories of dismemberment, cruelty and sorrow. Tales of ghost horses from the former firehouse and a later one of the ghost cats at the Strathcona High School were harmless enough, but other bloodied spirits preyed more upon the mind in darkened alleys and darker back streets.

The creepiest moment came at the aforementioned High School; while Nadine told us of the homeless man whose body was concealed in the foundations and whose spirit haunts a library typewriter and the third floor rooms, I looked up to see the silhouette of a man leaning out of the window, listening. A moment later he was gone, and the lights on that level turned on and off up and down the wings of the building. Almost as if there was a caretaker checking the building. Almost.

Besides leading various ghost and historical tours around the older parts of Edmonton, Nadine has written for several spooky TV series, including Creepy Canada, so the tour seemed an appropriate foretaste of the following morning, which saw me following the undead trail to the Alberta Film Studio.

My tour was hosted by Brad Stromberg, of the Edmonton Film Commission. We explored the soundstage (empty at that moment: a huge blank canvas waiting for the next story to come and be made manifest in its vast space). The city’s cinematic fortunes were revitalised some years ago when its denizens decided to reclaim the pejorative label ‘Dedmonton’ and declared they would be boring no more. The studio become a place to go to make horror films. The Ginger Snaps werewolf trilogy, Prom Night 2 and the series Fear Itself were all made here.

The studio makes a broader variety of films now – feature films Cutbank and the thriller Freezer were recently made here, but it’s still proud of its horror history (and of the city’s famous son, Nathan Fillion). It’s also the home base of acclaimed series Blackstone (now showing in New Zealand and Australia).

A highlight of the tour for me was meeting the independent film makers with offices on the top floor: Douglas Cole of Imageworks told me about his amazing new 3D project aimed at providing immersive and emotionally connecting experiences for people experiencing isolation and limited mobility, particularly among the elderly. Perry Shulak of Critical Vision is writing a graphic novel in between developing state-of-the-art e-learning materials and Bogart Productions’ Patti Olsen is producing a documentary about the role of Canadian Indigenous women in first response roles, as well as several animations and a possible feature film. I met so many creative people using the space collaboratively and for such a diverse range of projects, it was very inspiring. I think I want to run away to Edmonton and burrow into that amazing space and find ways of working with these fabulous people.

The horror film motif continued in the afternoon as I joined Tim in a confab at The Next Act Pub with the folks behind Dedfest and dEdmonton. (Pictured from left to right, Kevin Martin, Matt Novak, Derek Clayton and Darryl Plunkie.)

Derek Clayton is the president and event co-ordinator of the five-day horror film festival, Dedfest, which is on annually in October. In 2013, the festival will run 16-20 October, with films showing at the local Metro Cinema. Past Dedfests have shown films like the Nazi zombie flick Dead Snow and included guests like Michael Biehn. The festival has expanded from its origins six years ago to include grindhouse, SF and kung fu films along with the pre-requisite monster, slasher, stalker fare of the horror genre.

“We describe ourselves now as an international genre film festival,” said Derek over a beer.

Another brain (not in a jar) behind Dedfest is Kevin Martin, who runs a video store specialising in horror, The Lobby. Kevin is passionate and keenly knowledgeable on the genre, and has popped up on a couple of the festival’s promotional videos.

“Kevin and I did this for selfish reasons,” continued Derek, “There were so many cool movies we wanted to see on screen that weren’t coming here, because we’re considered a small market.” The broader appeal, both men say, is partly in the communal experience of horror fans getting to sit down together and share their passion (and cheer the gruesome deaths). “People really want to see these things with a crowd. It’s a lot of fun.”

The festival is expanding into edgier, more arthouse type films. Dedfest digital manager, Matt Novak, said: “We have a loyal following but we’ve also been branching out. It’s been working, the crowd is starting to trust us more.” New fare has included films like Toby Jones’s Barbarian Sound Studio which is a low-gore story about a sound engineer (Jones) working on a horror film and ‘one of the worst films ever made’ Miami Connection.

The general celebration of the reclamation of the Dedmonton moniker is also apparent in the yearly dEdmonton Halloween festival. Darryl Plunkie is the chairman of the festival, which operates as an umbrella organisation to promote and sometimes organise events for the spooky season. Past events have included a Miss Dedmonton pageant. Darryl also hosts the horror podcast Hauntopic.

Asked about the appeal of the communal experience of a horror festival, Darryl said: “There are lots of horror fans out there that in their day jobs you don’t realise that they like this, doctors and lawyers and that sort of stuff, then they come out and they cheer when the character they despise gets massacred on the screen. You’re sitting with a hundred other people, and half of them could be the most staid people you’ve ever seen until you get them into this environment.”

Asked for their Canadian literary horror pics, Darryl recommended the zombies-in-Vietnam comic 68, by Matt Jones, while Kevin Martin, recommended Ghoul by Michael Slade (actually the pen name of father and daughter writing team Jay and Rebecca Clarke.

So. The dead heart of Edmonton is clearly still beating a bloody pulse, and if you’re a horror fan, October is a good time to visit. Get booking – you still have a month to get here for the 2013 Dedfest and dEdmonton events!

In the meantime, I will go to Montreal in the province of Quebec and hope that these accursed insect bites stop itching soon.

See some of the Dedfest videos:

the 2012 Dedfest promo

Twas the Night of the Tree Beast created by House of Heathens and featuring Kevin Martin and The Lobby!

Visit

Dedfest

dEdmonton

Edmonton Ghost Tours

Hauntopic podcast.

Film Alberta

Thank you to the folks from Dedfest and dEdmonton, Film Alberta, Edmonton Ghost Tours and Edmonton Tourism for their time and assistance on this visit.

The Lady Novelist and The Empress

Diary: 29 August

I have survived bears only to be buffeted about in a series of unlikely aircraft. The seaplane that nearly ended my career on the flight out to the Lodge was less unruly on the return journey, but the small aeroplane to Vancouver was late and flew turbulent skies. Nevertheless, our small band of explorers bound for Victoria, on the southern end of Vancouver Island, made the connecting flight. Which appeared to be an Airfix model kit with an engine strapped to it. This newfangled air flight is wonderously fast and packed with adrenalln-spiking thrills, but I confess, I miss the days of leisurely travel by palanquin.

Yet our skilled pilots brought us safely back to the solid surface of the planet, and thus my companion and I found ourselves ensconced in a large, comfortable room at The Empress, of the Fairmont line of hotels. This grand and picturesque pile opened in 1908, and its Edwardian elegance remains. It is certainly not the hotel’s fault that its wide corridors, wallpapered and carpeted in period glamour, leave me with a certain sensation of the collywobbles. Too many films like The Shining and episodes of Doctor Who have simply left me with a persistent distrust of corridors.

The hotel looks out upon the inner boat harbour, and a friendly gull landed on our sill in order to assess our suitability as residents of the fine old Empress. In this regard, the gull was not dissimilar to its distant cousin, the bald eagle, and seemed to find us wanting; although this may be due to the fact that I refused to share my dinner with the beast.

Victoria of course has more to offer the traveller than Edwardian grandeur. The town is the capital of British Columbia, and its Parliament House is decked out festively in fairy lights. Surely that speaks well of the politics of the town?

The Royal BC Museum’s Thunderbird Park is filled with striking and beautiful totems, while inside a current exhibition tells of the race to the South Pole, with text and artefacts from both the Amundsen and Scott parties. I have seen the original of the last page of Scott’s diary at the British Library, and even the replica here was deeply touching. What is this thing we have, being drawn to heroic failures of this kind? Perhaps it is that we would all hope to meet our ends, however desperate, with some measure of courage and grace.

A more encouraging note was struck on our visit to Emily Carr House. I hadn’t heard of this artist and writer before coming to Canada, but I’ve become an admirer. She was one of the early modernist painters, and her work is vivid and robust. She was originally spurned before finally becoming admired in later years, and Canadians are all now very proud of her. There is a book and documentary exploring the connections between her, Georgia O’Keefe and Freda Kahlo, which is an interesting juxtaposition between women of fierce talent and fiercer character.

The neighbourhood around the Carr house is also very pretty, filled with period homes of wood and bright colours. Only a few streets back from the harbour, it feels almost like a different town. The harbour is bustling with tourists and passengers from the docking cruise ships, but only these few blocks away there is beautiful architecture, wonderful little cafes like Tre Fantastico and space to take a calming breath or two.

Our days in Victoria are too few, but our next leg – on The Canadian train across the Rocky Mountains to Jasper, in true Edwardian style – promises gorgeous scenery. Onward, ever onward.

Thank you once more to our hosts, Canadian Tourism.

The Lady Novelist Becomes One with Nature

Day Five.

We have left the city behind. Hundreds of kilometres of rivers and mountains lie between me and the nearest cafe. That the coffee in Canada is a national tragedy is neither here nor there. The distance and therefore my separation anxiety exists.

Yet I have fetched up on a civilised shore indeed. The Great Bear Lodge, floating on the Nekite River that runs through the Great Bear Rainforest in western Canada, is a haven of comfort in the midst of perilous Nature.

Though, it turns out, nature is less perilous than I’d imagined. Some of it is playful. Some of it downright judgemental.

We are guests at the Great Bear Lodge and last night (after an excellent repast prepared by the gifted Glen the Chef) we drove the rough terrain to a hide by the river. From there, ten of us sat in the shade, listening to the river, the sporadic splash of a leaping salmon, and the passing gulls, waiting to see a bear.

And see one we did, stepping quietly out from the forest some hundred metres distant, to look hopefully upon the river. Perhaps no fish were near; perhaps someone softly coughing in the hide disturbed it, but the bear moved on sans fish.

Bears, it turns out, may be large but they are more timid than you’d think. They would rather amble away than pick a fight, though they’ll respond robustly if they feel threatened. The cardinal rule is Do Not Surprise a Bear.

(Take note, this includes springing out with birthday cake and a party hat. It also precludes donning, say, a regency frock and bonnet before going out to bear-watch, because that would certainly come under the heading of ‘surprising’.)

In a further aside, I did risk surprising a bear, and possibly the rare hiker, by needing to answer nature’s call without the protection of sturdy plumbing. Preceded by a guide who called out ‘hey, bear!’ in warm and friendly tones – no need to surprise bears or hikers any more than necessary – I was required to bare my all on the far side of our little bus. Let me tell you that there is nothing quite like a cool Canadian forest breeze on your arse and the nascent possibility of unwelcome surprises to let you know you’re alive.

On my return (unmolested by bears) to the hide, a flash of white on the river bank in the other direction proved to be a bald eagle. We saw several flying along the river. As I inspected this one through my binoculars, it turned its head in my direction and looked at me. Disapprovingly. Judgementally, in fact. It made me fear I had underdressed for the occasion, or possibly had forgotten to comb my hair.

But the inadequacy I felt under that gimlet stare vanished as another bear emerged from the trees and proceeded to pounce on the water, galloping upstream in a frolicsome manner before halting, triumphant, with a large salmon in its jaws.

I guess it’s not much fun for salmon to be surprised either.

It was a little odd, silently cheering on the bear’s successful hunting foray (loudly cheering would come under the heading of ‘surprising a bear’ which, as has been discussed, is viewed with alarm). Not ten minutes earlier, I had been silently applauding the progress of a salmon as it leapt out of the water to get further upstream. For all I know the bear ate that very same fish, which would be a harsh irony indeed.

Here I sit, contemplating yesterday’s encounters with bear and bird. On the patio of this floating lodge, swallows dart about, one coming in to feed chicks in a nest under the eaves while tiny hummingbirds – itty bitty birdy helicopters – dart and hover, their wings an almost invisible blur that make an audible whirr as they pass. Splashes from the river indicate salmon, sometimes seals from the colony at the nearby island. It’s calm and fresh and simply lovely.

I’ve stated before that I don’t trust nature but I find this Canadian wilderness growing on me.

A little footage for you:

19 seconds of hummingbirds

one minute of a distant bear

(My thanks to Great Bear Nature Tours and Canadian Tourism for hosting us.)

The Lady Novelist Meets a Bear and Cheers a Lumberjack

On this, my third day in the Great Northern Metropolis, I made my way up the perilous paths to Grouse Mountain (by which I mean I stepped onto a bus and rode to the cable car over the trees to not-quite-the-summit).

Walking around a mountain was different to the previous two days, which mainly involved a cool walking tour and going to interesting places to eat. But, being that I am who I am, and none other than who I am, the trip to Grouse Mountain also involved food. But with views! Of bears! And lumberjacks! and distant lands like the United States of America! And giant wooden sculptures of eagles!

The wooden sculptures inevitably reminded me of the White Witch of Narnia turning talking animals to stone. Perhaps this day she was feeling more in the mood for earthy colours and the scent of woodchips.

Because frankly, this eagle would be even more imposing in stone.

But onto the bears! Two orphaned cubs were found some years ago and brought to Grouse Mountain to be cared for. Now around 4 years old, they are too used to humans to successfully return to the wild (where they might still be hunted). This one looks like I do before my first coffee of the day.

The second bear was more of a water baby:A Swimming Grizzly Bear

I felt the need to get down to the micro level for a bit, so here are some flowers and what might be a bee. Or a wasp. Or some other form of flying death. Seriously, I was more concerned by the stripey bug than the bear with the huge claws.

But never mind all that. Furry or flying forms of death-by-nature (and we all know how I distrust nature) be damned: there were lumberjacks on show. I mean doing a show. Pretty I mean fit I mean how very skilled they are.

And look. Footage. My intrepid fellow traveller and organiser-of-holidays extraordinaire said it all turned very Mr Darcy at the end there. Waterlogged Lumberjacks

Poor Johnny was nearly unmanned.

I found comfort in a Beaver Tail, my first! It’s a lot like a cinnamon and sugar doughnut that has been tortured on the rack before frying. The resulting squishy-outside-crunchy-middle meets with my sterling approval.

Having dessert before lunch was a bit arse-about, I know, but hey. I’m an adventuress now. I make WILD DECISIONS and I DO WHAT I WANT, OKAY?

We found a place on the deck overlooking the city below. We could see the border between Canada and the US very distinctly. It honestly looks like someone went out there and painted a great big line down the middle, like you’re tempted to do when you’re having a huge demarcation dispute with an annoying sibling with whom you share a room.

“YOU STAY ON YOUR SIDE OF THE ROOM!”

“LEAVE MY STUFF ALONE OR I’M TELLING MUM!”

“NO YOU LEAVE MY STUFF ALONE OR I’M BURNING YOUR TEDDY BEAR!”

Though perhaps that was just my siblings.

Altitudes provided lunch (thank you Altitudes!) so we scarfed down a delish bready pretzel spread with Guiness-whipped soft cheese (no really, it’s much nicer than it sounds) and a spot of British Columbia salmon on flatbread for starters, and then onto the ling cod tacos, accompanied by a Ginger Ninja beer. This is not ginger-beer-as-softdrink. It’s beer with a bit of ginger zing. These Canadians. They know a thing or two about food.

Entertainingly, the view of mountains, the valley, the city, the river and all those trees was occasionally interupted by brave souls fluttering past on hang gliders. From where I sat, I couldn’t even hear any screaming. (Well, if it was me on one of those contraptions, probably the diners would have heard the screaming. And the swearing. And the ‘oh god what was I thinking?!’ so it’s just as well I was on the patio instead.)

Thank you to Grouse Mountain and Tourism Vancouver for hosting us today. In the Australian vernacular of my teenaged years, I had a grouse time!

The Lady Novelist turns Adventuress

Diary, 23 August 2013

We rose at 3am, the hour of ghosts and other unnatural stirrings of the night, so our timing in that regard was good. From this rude hour we bestirred ourselves to the airfield for our craft to Sydney, and thence to our machine to take us across the great Pacific to Vancouver, another outreach of the Empire.

Diary, 23 August 2013

What is this devilry? A day repeated in so unwarranted a fashion? I suppose we all wish for a do-over day sometimes, and at least this one I can do over NOT in the confines of a cramped airship full of people with a peculiar idea of the definition of ‘a single item of carry-on luggage’.

Nevertheless, here we are, I and my stalwart First Mate, despite exhaustion and frankly making not much sense at times, exploring Vancouver. The locals have been forbearing with us, especially when we nod off mid-sentence.

My favourite discovery so far in this city of hills and waterways: East Van Roasters. An establishment that makes coffee on a par with that of the hold homestead, and a spicy Mayan hot chocolate to kill for.

Organic coffee and cacao beans are both roasted on the premises and this not for profit business provides training and employment to local women.

Come to Vancouver for the gentle adventure and charmingly pleasant townsfolk. Stay for the beverages and chocolate products at East Van Roasters.

East Van Roasters: artisans chocolate and coffees at 319 Carrall St, Gastown, Vancouver

Twitter@eastvanroasters

Lost and Found 5: Plot Bunny

She is small, to hold so much rage in her. Small and ferocious and so, so tired. She had to dig her way out again, and her with no bones, no muscles, just cotton and stuffing, weeping all the while.

Dig she did, though, and she found the sky again, and now she seeks something more. It will take a long time to find it (to take it) she has no doubt.

But revenge is patient, yes it is. Revenge has time enough. A dish best served cold, they say. Has no use-by date, they say.

It is a long way home, but that’s all right. That will give her time to think, to plan, to plot.

The days and weeks and months she’ll spend wending homeward will provide so much careful, burning time to decide which of them to punish – or punish first, at least – and how best to share with her enemies how it felt.

How it felt to be seized in hot, hard jaws and taken away.

How it felt to realise that Beloved Little One didn’t raise a squeak of protest, being too enamoured of the splash of low-breaking waves on the sand to notice or care that the Beast was in motion, Bunny in its mouth.

How it felt to hear Uncaring Adult say in a bored, peeved tone ‘No, Cheezle, put Bunny back; bloody dog,’ as ineffectively as a cat protesting, with no real interest, the closing of a door.

How it felt that no-one came to her rescue.

How it felt that nobody cared, and that Older Bully only laughed when she saw Cheezle carrying Bunny away on the beach.

A heart of cotton and stuffing (but a heart all the same) can still break when it understands the words: ‘I’m not digging my way up and down the beach to find that bloody rabbit. Amelia has plenty of toys at home. Forget it. It’s starting to rain. Let’s leave.’

Bunny, down in her damp and sandy grave, buried there by Cheezle (jealous Cheezle, vicious Beast) was afraid, and then bereft, and then forlorn, and then outraged, and then enraged, and then, oh then, so full of fury and fire and hatred that despite the softness of her unboned limbs, the tatters of her stuffing heart, she began to dig.

Rabbits dig, you know. Even the soft ones. Even the ones made of cotton and polyester and tagged with washing instructions, they can dig, if properly motivated. Usually they burrow into little hearts, making a kindly warren of comfort and safety; days of play and nights of comfort, and those tunnels and dens make memories that keep old hearts gentle down the long, long years.

Bunny’s burrows of love and comfort have been blasted and filled with stones, this day. Instead, Bunny dug up, up, up from the pit where Cheezle (filthy Cheezle, the Beast who will know what it is to be sorry) buried her.

A moment’s pause by the sea, by the vast desert made of millions of pulverised bones and stones and dead things, and then Bunny will be off to fulfill her purpose.

Bunny will take whatever time and effort it takes to retrace her steps; to follow the path that the Metal Toybox on Wheels took to bring her to this cold and loveless shore. She will return to the home she knew and lay waste to Older Bully and Uncaring Adult and Cheezle the foul Beast and even Beloved Little One, faithless tiny bitch that she is, and Bunny will know what it is to be drenched in blood as well as sea and sand.

And they, the family that spurned her, will know what it is to be mauled and buried and left unmourned to be swallowed by the sea.

Oh yes, they will.

Lost and Found is an irregular series of posts about random items I find abandoned on the streets and the stories I make of them.

Narrelle M Harris is a Melbourne-based writer. Find out more about her books, smartphone apps, public speaking and other activities at www.narrellemharris.com.