Clouds In The Head

Write That Script! is coming

If you’d like to get some tips on how to write a script, or if you’ve got a pal who has always expressed an interest in script-writing, there’s a low-cost high-value workshop coming to the Dungog Festival on 29 September. Taught by me, John O’Brien. will take you to the page in question.

There’s some pre-work to get you going in August and September, then there’s the big event in late Sept. And when you’re not learning, you can be out amongst it at the fiesta, music, film, food, a parade, lotsa fun.

The pre-work will be on-line, no need to be in Dungog Shire till the workshop itself.

I’m structuring this workshop around what I call the “action premise”. Which runs something like this:

What’s the idea? (which leads to…) What’s the story contract you’ve making with the audience? (which leads to…) How can you deliver on that story, who are the right characters, what should happen next, and next, and next, and next, and how can that be as engrossing as possible?

The “action premise” is a good way to avoid overworking an idea or going down the wrong track with a story.

Lots of fun tidbits and traps and tricks and other things starting with T. Maybe even a cup of T!

Only $25 plus $2 booking fee. The cost is low because it’s funded by the Country Arts Support Program.

One more thing, as the actress said against the bishop: there’s a reading in November if we get enough excerpts and interest.


A new cryptic for those who like
15 February, 2018, 7:21 pm
Filed under: Daily maily

It’s been a while!

New crossword 2018 one-a

2018 one-a.jpg

Pillowbook Of Yoga
6 May, 2015, 11:14 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

Hi, loopholes. I’ve started a new blog. It’s of the occasional or sporadic sort, until I get groovin with it and know what I’m doin with it (probably gettin jiggy widdit). It’s about yoga, the everyday experience thereof. And it’s here:

Please follow or ignore, as is your wilt.

Small Chance Of Heaven?
8 January, 2015, 3:38 pm
Filed under: Nobody Loves A Thinker

This morning, on our holiday on the beaches east of Taree, I decided to stroll away from my family for a minute. I found myself savouring the sensation of treading on the crunchy salt-encrusted sand above the waterline, stepping carefully between the large Manning River pebbles that “litter” the beaches round here. I moved to different sorts of sand and hurried back to the crunchy stuff, realising that all my life I’ve loved that particular quality of sand.

I’ve been going through one of my “I am mortal” phases and the thought struck me that one day I will never again experience the crunchy sand. When I was a child and a good Catholic lad, I was expecting that after death heaven would include all the wondrous stuff that I loved during my life. There’d be reunions, perfections, the ability to do the stuff that I was afraid of, etc etc.

I wondered this morning if perhaps it was time to revisit the religion thing. Any suggestions? I need a religion that will give me eternal life including the walking on crunchy sand. I’d like to see my folks again, and quite a few other people (my year 11-12 English teacher, for example). And perhaps a few decades down the track to hug my sons again.

Mormonism is vaguely interesting. At the End Of Days, the elect rise up after everyone else has gone off, to hell I guess, or compost, and walk the earth again: all of them and the earth too in their best shape. Also they have fantastic Magic Underpants.

Buddhism maybe, but it seems a pretty smoky religion, if religion at all, and more suited to life on earth now than to the everlasting kind. I won’t go back to Catholicism, and Islam is a little extreme for me at the moment and not feminist enough.

If I can’t find a good religion, preferably one that doesn’t include a God, I’ll go to plan B. This is where, on my deathbed, I imagine that after death I’m going to see eg the folks, the wife, eventually the kids again. Instead of succumbing to the pain I will look forward to the time a few days or hours hence when I’ll be stepping between pebbles in my bare feet on salty crunchy sand on a balmy summer’s day, the holy roar of waves just down the sand, and maybe there’ll be oysters and mum’s self-saucing chocolate pudding. Later I’ll go see Tom Waits or Betty Carter or even get up on stage myself. It’ll be heaven.

We re-live our initiation rituals
9 May, 2014, 8:02 pm
Filed under: Nobody Loves A Thinker

I was trying to watch the beginning of the horror film Scream last night. It didn’t help that we live in a house in the middle of nowhere with large panes of glass (sliding doors mostly) facing empty bush and field. I got quickly scared. I knew what was coming. I turned off.

And then I got to thinking why this clearly cleverly contrived script would appeal, even why it would be made.

I’m not sure what the leap of logic was but this was my ponderment: perhaps we relive our initiation rituals or experiences, perhaps we seek for their re-creation in our recreation and our creations and our ceremonial re-cremations. Perhaps all those kids who did the horror thing in their teens (I was too scared to) are then searching for the occasions and proofs of their manhood/womanhood/naughty risk-taking away from parents. Perhaps that’s why indigenous societies have such formalised initiations for their early teens, because the big, frightening, age-busting, ceiling-shattering journeys punched into their early teens then provide a deep structure for later behaviour. Lacan would probably think it was way too late but he was somewhat French.

There’s something halcyon about those teen buzzes. Our friends are never closer, our future never brighter, our despair never more cutting. We dream and daydream and jump off (metaphorical and real) cliffs. Nobel prize-winners tend to have had significant mentors when they’re about 14 years old.

The script I’ve been working on for many years, Rainbird, is kind of about this moment, but from the side of a potential mentor. There’s this young fellow. Someone at the cliff edge of adolescence. Will they jump, pull back, or discover there’s a rope attached and they can abseil down?

I guess what I’ve constructed in Rainbird is an initiation ritual for the kid in question, and hope in its gizzards, instead of violence and suicide.

Perhaps he needs to be cut. I should cut him, in my script. My hero, a grieving woman age 40, should be the one to cut him.

I won’t burrow deeper for now. I’m too busy thinking.

The existential uncertainty of being somewhere else
9 May, 2014, 2:29 pm
Filed under: travel versus unravel

Or – what we think we need to do when we travel.

We observe. We make notes. We are surprised. We detect difference. We wonder. We detect similarity.

Oh, look, that’s a good half dozen water buffalo in that paddy. 

They have crofton weed here, too. And that’s a mini-lantana, I wonder how weedy it gets here.

Wow, those women have been hanging round outside our hotel room hoping to sell us stuff for hours!

The locals don’t seem fazed by all that smoke in their houses. 

Does this land ever get a drought?

They like a drink, the men round here, just like us.

We share our thoughts. But we don’t quite know what to do with them. We don’t “travel by thesis” (well we do a bit, but not in an all-engulfing manner – see future blog post “Donna and the Shovel Women” for more info) in the way Marxists of yore once did, seeing everything through the lens of oppression and wage slavery.

We meet folks and compare. Oh, we have crofton weed at home, it’s very bad for horses. 


And then we take a photo. Here is our guide. Her name was Khu. She was delightful. We sent her a photo when we left. Her command of English was amazing. She was a fine guide through the rice fields of Sapa. She had a gorgeous way of saying “I have no idea”. 

We latch onto ideas, hungry for them, seeking perhaps to legitimise our trip or to find some point of solidarity or something to “take home” to the people when we return. They’re so inspiringly energised: we can learn a thing or two from them.

And then we learn that cocktails are cheap, wine is expensive and suddenly the whole holiday begins to develop its own character and our discoveries, thoughts, notes, differences and similarities can be explored again over an easy daiquiri before bed and the next day’s discoveries can begin.

28 April, 2014, 7:21 pm
Filed under: travel versus unravel

Landing means not only arriving back, and dealing with the shards of consciousness still intact after trying to sleep in Economy.

It means beginning to develop the narrative of the trip. Those Vietnamese are so energetic, enterprising, much like us, different, hectic, friendly. The boys liked a lot of it but they didn’t appreciate the extensive hours bussing and training between destinations. Yes we’re broke, I know it’s cheap there but it turns out we have champagne tastes. You must go there, it’s amazing, you’d love it!

It means making our home livable again. There’s a chook sitting on 17 eggs – should we hatch them? OMG Mary and Graeme are booked in for a visit – on Tuesday! The grass is very long; I wonder if there’s enough petrol to mow. It’s late autumn – we need to chop firewood. Hey, look at all the ants’ nests in the pavers. I guess I have to throw out 5 shirts to fit the 5 I had made. I didn’t realise it’d be Anzac Day – no milk till tomorrow lads!

It means work again. Fuck me dead I’m booked in to teach the TAE next Saturday! I have to teach yoga and I never got round to doing yoga on the trip, I hope my body remembers. I have 16 sets of chords to learn before our next gig. Do we have to go back to school? I don’t wanna go to work I wanna be back in the Naaaaaaaam!

It means all those post-trip activities, like sorting photos and writing up the diary and chucking out leaflets. Hey all our cameras were set to different times, we have 5000 photos, the younger boy doesn’t want to cull ANY of his comic selfies, this is going to take FOREVER. Oh no I just knocked a glass of water over my hand-written diary. Are you sure we don’t need this leaflet about orthognathic surgery, darling? 

It means trying to cling on to the memories and feelings, by telling the story, tidying up the house, sorting the photos, and not letting work take complete control. Another weasel coffee, dear? Hey, boys, remember all those frozen jellyfish creatures in the limestone at Phong Nha? You know what Dungog needs – a backpackers! Oh, in Vietnam they’d say Xin Chao. Hey, everybody, let’s have a slide-show. 

But a slide show will require a million hours of sorting. Well let’s get on with it, then, eh.