A Difficult Conversation

Oh no why

                        Okay

                                                Really?  Yes.          Really?

Oh wow this

            Yeah no             no                                    no

                                                Yeah

                        Like,

                                    Really

                        Okay.

Okay.

No but yeah

            I know

                        But no

            Yeah

                        Okay

            Really?

                        Yeah

            But

                        No

                        …really

                                                Yeah

Oh

                                    Okay

Okay

Why Writing Is Not Dependent Upon Your Emotional State

This is a response to http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/why-its-easier-to-write-when-youre-sad/ and http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/why-its-harder-to-write-when-youre-happy/ from @ThoughtCatalog.

Why Writing Is Not Dependant Upon Your Emotional State.

Writing is a craft.  It is a learned skill.  The ability to know words, to understand language and to construct sentences is something which most of us are already familiar with – whether you see yourself as a writer or not – to varying degrees of astuteness and heritage.  But at the end of the day, saying that writing is easier when you’re sad is akin to saying that writing is hard when you don’t want to do it.

The real issue here is not whether or not writing is easier when you’re sad, but how your perception of writing manifests in the first place. 

The familiar image of the ‘Depressed Writer’ is a stereotype that continues to persist among the collective unconscious.  I have said in the past that stereotypes exist for a reason, and it is entirely true that this particular one is not an exception – writers, or any artist really, generally tend to be an overly emotional and dramatic bunch.  And that’s because our very trade depends upon the ebb and flow of drama – good writing involves arcs in which characters experience peaks and troughs, which should generally be triggered by dramatic twists.  A story in which the character is blissful throughout has a limited shelf life.

However, the idea that writing when you’re depressed is any more difficult to writing when you’re abundantly overjoyed is fucking stupid.

Writing is writing; ideas are ideas.  If you’re a good writer, then you write whether you’re happy, sad, depressed, ecstatic, high, drunk, sober, bored, inspired, uninspired or so busy that you have no spare moments to pen a shopping list, let alone a coherent thought.

The energy of your writing; the way you perceive that writing is another matter – but at the end of the day, it’s actually not that critical to whether you’re writing in the first place.

If you think that writing is easier when you’re sad, then that’s because you’re more caught up with the idea of what a writer is than what a writer does.  If you think that you have more inspiration when you’re sad, or that it’s easier to write well when you’re personally depressed because oh no my boyfriend left me!  Or I lost my iPhone!  Or I need to write an article for my blog and I don’t have any ideas!  Then you’re very clearly missing the point.

When asked what he thought the best intellectual training for a would-be writer was, Hemingway said, “Let’s say that he should go out and hang himself because he finds that writing well is impossibly difficult. Then he should be cut down without mercy and forced by his own self to write as well as he can for the rest of his life. At least he will have the story of the hanging to commence with.”

You write about your experiences, your opinions and here’s-fucking-hoping a quirky idea that leads to some kind of point; good or bad, happy or sad, curvaceous or flat.

If you think that writing when you’re happy is difficult, then you need to pick another trade.

Stupid Characters

Gordon McAlpin is the writer and illustrator of a web comic I love called Multiplex (http://multiplexcomic.com/).  As its name suggests, it's set in a Cinema Multiplex - and perhaps part of the reason why I love it so is because I spent four years whilst studying working for Cineplex Australia; first as an usher, and finally as a projectionist.  Often times, the staff would joke about how excellent a television series our exploits would make.


But as it turns out, a web comic does the job just as well.  And when I was first recommended this comic by a friend late last year, I devoured the entire archive in two solid days of reading.


For movie buffs out there, the comic has a cutting and witty mix of trivia, critiques and general film-type conversation; which is completely fun to read.  But what McAlpin does really well is to create a self-contained world with realistic characters, and a story line that is genuinely engaging.  To be honest, I've never been the kind of guy to read a comic simply for the illustrations; but McAlpin's work here too suits the theme of his story very well - in particular when the characters venture into heritage cinemas.  That's where it really shines.


I follow the fellow on twitter, and this afternoon we had a bit of a back-and-forth spawned by the television series Breaking Bad (which I am not overly fond of).  I was venting about how frustrated I get at the stupidity of characters - which is the main reason why I dislike Breaking Bad and stopped watching it.  To which he offered this thought, that resonated strongly with my views on all kinds of entertaining fiction.

@gmcalpin:

"The most unrealistic thing I can happily tolerate in fiction is the conceit that everybody in the world is intelligent and articulate."

Upon thinking about it, I realise that I have no real problem with characters who are uneducated, idiotic, dumb or unlikable; but I have a real problem with characters who are intelligent, yet continue to make stupid decisions, simply to move the plot forward.  In this sense, I define "stupid" as something which is outwardly ridiculous.  At such a point, I lose interest in the film's story because I begin to get the feeling that the filmmakers are bashing me over the head with their opinions.  McAlpin opined about the series that: "It's good but the writing defies logic too often for the sake of "cool" moments," which is a similar sentiment a filmmaking buddy of mine offered some months back when we were also talking about the show.


Any film or writing teacher will tell you that in any piece of work, a character must follow their own desires; their own wants and their own needs.  This is where the conflict of drama enters and how a story evolves.  It is also how the "journey" of a character can articulate itself, and gain resonance with its audience.  Yet when characters who otherwise are intelligent, sane human beings, make choices that an audience cannot understand, and continues to offer anything satisfying in the way of explanation or resolution for those choices - then why should we waste our time in following their journey?


At the end of the day though - the main reason why I stopped watching Breaking Bad is because I just hated the characters.  I don't even care that the writing was good, or that the story was different, or that it was making a point - all of the characters were utterly irredeemable, and it depressed me to witness their constant stupidity.


This is actually a part of a greater line of thinking I have on the important balance between character and plot; but I'll save that for a longer post.

Excerpt from 'Things I Have Learned in a Decade of Freelance Writing'

READ: If you’re not reading absolutely everything you can get your hands on, you’re doing it wrong (again, it’s tax deductible). Read the papers, magazines, zines, blogs, The Bible, fairy-tales, the personals sections, the liner notes on old records. “Writers” who suspend themselves in some hermetically-sealed bubble of their own brilliance are boring. (ED - my emphasis)


Link to original article: http://clembastow.tumblr.com/post/10253898011/things-i-have-learned-in-a-decade-of-freelance-writing

The Silence of Each Other.

We fell asleep at just a little past 7am,

Each with our phones pressed firm against our ears

Huddled under blankets

In separate rooms

In separate homes,

In separate suburbs;

Yet closer than we’d ever been before,

And as morning light

(that was not soft,

And did not creep)

Sternly bashed its fists against the panes of our windows

Like some stepfather half asleep and woken

By the laughing of a child that is not his with
Reprimands as consequence

For bliss;

We did the only thing we could

And drew ourselves as deeply as we should

Not have dared

Into the silence of each other.

Unable

Or unwilling to hang up we

Wrapped ourselves into the warmth of a coiled

‘Yes.’

An understanding as profound as it was

Sudden as it was

Bewildering as it was

True;

Each the other’s silent witness to the blooming of intent,

Each the other’s silent guard

Against that effervescent ‘Yes’

We listened desperately

To the silence of each other

Were borne swift into the presence

Of a thing so deep

We dared not name it;

And so instead

We laid ourselves to sleep upon it

Made ourselves an ally of it,

Cursed our future friendship by it

And hoped it would not vanish

Into the silence of each other.

For four hours of that drunken morning

Words flew from our lips

As natural as bats spilling out the mouth of a cave,

Agitated from their roost

By some inner sense of change

Unfurling onto the night like lamplight

Pooling in the unclean pores of a Friday night fist fight,

Like we,

Drunk and careless,

And lighting up the world with the suddenness

Of the knowledge

That we exist

In the eyes of each other.

And I remember, you said,

Something like “Tell me something special,”

And I replied, sleepily,

“What would you like to know?”

So you said,

“Read me something that you wrote.”

We fell asleep at just a little past 7am

And I knew that was the time

Because my phone suddenly vibrated

And I thought

“Who would call me now but
who I'm already talking to?”

And so I looked and then I laughed and said,

“My alarm just went off

Telling me to wake up.”

And you replied,

“Why would you want to wake up now
When sleeping is as good as this?”

We fell asleep at just a little past 7am

And four hours later I awoke

Still with the phone pressed against my ear

And I thought

“My God I hope it's not true about mobile phones and radiation.”

And then I listened

And I could hear

You breathing

And the sunlight which was never streaming

Now past the point of being stern

So brilliant in its reaming

Of our coalescent yearn

Made my room as freezing hot as the desert

In the middle of the day

But yet I could not tear myself away

From the silence

In between your breaths.

I couldn’t move, I couldn’t jest,

I could only laugh,

Wholeheartedly

Irrepressibly taken by the understanding of Yes.

And then you woke up,

And the first thing

The only thing you said was,

“Did I snore?”

These Are The Tenets of Existence I Hold to be True at 27 yrs of Age.

• What you think will eventually become manifest in reality.
• Food makes everything better.
• Meditation is very important - but it is not the answer to everything.
• No matter what you might believe at the time, there is always another way to think about a problem.
• It is possible for you to "make it" on your own - but it is far less interesting to do so.
• Never mistake "spiritual understanding" for disassociation - it is easy to confuse the two.
• Trust what you feel, and feel what you think.  If you feel nothing, that is a sign.
• Everything is always okay.
• Walking is the best form of exercise you can get.
• Love comes in many forms, but real love is something that you do not have to think about.  Because you can't.

Conversation lol!

I was out at a bar last night and found myself idly chatting with a girl - maybe about 18 - that night's love interest of a guy I knew who was DJ'ing that evening. He had dashed off to cue up the next song, so the girl and I were talking.

Ric's was packed, so we were standing quite close to one another; I was feeling festive and it seemed to me that the conversation was an interesting one, when, while I was in the middle of replying to something she'd asked, she pulled her phone out from her handbag (which was clutched at her chest), and began scrolling through Facebook.

Like a child who holds a torch beneath their chin to create a mask of garish shadows, her face lit ghoulish blue, and I was instantly and suddenly irate as her eyes darted to the damned device while she nodded her head and made agreeing noises in imitation of attention.

Now, it's not very often that I deliberately lie or mock people, but sometimes I just can't help myself, and before I knew what I was doing I said, "You know - they've just found out that the screens on phones cause eye cancer?"

Well that got her attention.

She snapped back to me and shrieked, "What?!"

Immediately, she dropped her phone back into her bag as if it were toxic waste.

"Oh my GAWD! I mean, like - is that the same how they cause radiation and stuff?! Because I knew about THAT - but EYE cancer? I can't even imagine how awful that would be! I always have it on speaker phone, y'know but like, EYE cancer? What do you even DO about that?"

I had to agree that I had no idea.

While I wanted to feel guilty for telling so obvious a lie, I just couldn't.  And it wasn't so much the checking of the phone, it was the insidiousness of it - how she tried to make it unobtrusive; a swift little peep mid-conversation could be forgiven... so long as she maintained the facade that she was still listening.

The guy came back and they both left shortly after, but it amuses me to hope that every time she is tempted to check her phone, the possible dangers of such an action will spring to mind, and maybe she'll think twice.

Perhaps instead, she might realise that it's not that important, and allow herself to be a little more invested in what's going on around her.

Quote from an interview w/ Stanley Kubrick about A Clockwork Orange.

"I think modern art's almost total pre-occupation with subjectivism has led to anarchy and sterility in the arts. The notion that reality exists only in the artist's mind, and that the thing which simpler souls had for so long believed to be reality is only an illusion, was initially an invigorating force, but it eventually led to a lot of highly original, very personal and extremely uninteresting work. In Cocteau's film Orpheé, the poet asks what he should do. 'Astonish me,' he is told. Very little of modern art does that -- certainly not in the sense that a great work of art can make you wonder how its creation was accomplished by a mere mortal. Be that as it may, films, unfortunately, don't have this problem at all. From the start, they have played it as safe as possible, and no one can blame the generally dull state of the movies on too much originality and subjectivism."

-Stanley Kubrick.

Excerpt from an interview w/ Ernest Hemingway in The Paris Review.

Came across this interview by someone I follow on twitter, and found the following excerpt a truly remarkable answer to quite a good question. Enjoy!

~~

INTERVIEWER

What would you consider the best intellectual training for the would-be writer?

HEMINGWAY

Let’s say that he should go out and hang himself because he finds that writing well is impossibly difficult. Then he should be cut down without mercy and forced by his own self to write as well as he can for the rest of his life. At least he will have the story of the hanging to commence with.

~~

Why I Fly With Tiger Airways (And Will Continue To Do So For The Foreseeable Future)

About four weeks ago I posted a question via my Facebook status enquiring whether any of my friends knew the regulations for transporting a guitar when flying via Tiger Airlines. Although nobody knew the answer to this question, several people felt the need to weigh in with their opinions as to why Tiger is the worst airline, and why I should most definitely NOT entrust my guitar with them.

In fact, the response was so vehement and instantaneous, so damning in condemnation for the budget flight service, that I had to double check I hadn’t typed something more along the lines of: “Hey guys – am thinking of joining a Nazi Death Cult and have heard of this one called Tiger Airways. Anyone heard of it?”

What I didn’t mention at the time, was that not only had I already booked my flight with Tiger, but I quite regularly fly with them – and not only do I hold their airline in high esteem, but I frequently talk them up to anyone who will listen. In fact, I am a member of both their national and international email newsletter list, a stripes reward flier, and a few years ago, after my first flight with them and before having a Facebook page was essential for business, I actively sought them out on the social networking site and became a fan – one of the very select few I have consciously done without their needing to promote it. I even considered writing a post on their wall about how awesome I think they are. And no, believe it or not – I’m not joking.

My reason for liking them so much? It’s really quite simple.

1.) They’re cheap
2.) In MY experience, they’re good. Consistently. And,
3.) They’ve contributed significantly to opening up Australia to easier exploration.

Now, I count myself rather fortunate to be blessed with a number of intelligent, interesting, kind and humorous human beings for friends, and the last thing I’d want is for any of them to take this post as an attack – it is not. But, strangely enough, though I let the Tiger bashing go at the time, I felt oddly hurt by the whole situation – like someone were mocking my favourite band or director. And, just as I would if someone WERE making fun of an artist I liked, I somehow feel the need to stick up for Tiger.

Around about the time this all took place, it’d been mentioned to me that a news piece was doing the rounds that Tiger had run into some trouble for flying with a faulty wing. I assumed then, that this had perhaps played a part in why people felt the need to tell me the airline was terrible. I also have heard tales from people I know and trust of their own experience when flying with Tiger, and having their flights delayed or even worse – cancelled with no notification and little recompense for the trouble.

I will agree that both points here are valid for thinking that the airline is shoddy, and I admit that if the same had happened to me, I would probably think similar.

(NOTE: Interestingly enough, statistically speaking last year Virgin was the worst major airline for flight cancellations - and yes, Tiger was the worst for delays with approximately 1 in 3 flights leaving late. However, YTD so far, Tiger's on-flight performance is at 83%, slightly trailing Qantas at 84.75% and way in front of Virgin Blue, who're at 77.6%
http://www.smh.com.au/travel/blogs/travellers-check/the-battle-to-be-ontime-20101122-1836k.html
http://www.tigerairways.com/sg/en/on_time_performance.php
http://www.qantas.com.au/travel/airlines/on-time-performance/global/en
http://www.virginaustralia.com/Personal/Flightinfo/Ontimeperformance/VirginBlueOnTimePerformance/index.htm)

But you see, the thing is – it hasn’t happened to me yet. And the thing about THAT is, if it were going to happen to anyone, by all probability it should’ve happened to me by now, because in the last three years, I’ve made 13 flights with the airline, and not one flight was cancelled, and not one plane crashed.
But I’ll be honest with you – it hasn’t all been bubbles and pixie dust. There was one time when we were delayed for five hours; three in the airport and two on the tarmac. That was a very unpleasant experience and, ultimately, a gruelling pain in the arse for all involved.

But did it stop me from flying with Tiger again? No. Why? Two reasons.

1.) Mostly because that which made the experience loathsome was not Tiger’s laxness, but the obnoxious, arrogant, petulant and all-round annoying fellow fliers who WOULD NOT STOP COMPLAINING in very loud tones for the entire two hours we were held up on the tarmac – even after it had been explained to us that they were examining an anomaly with one of the engines and would move us as soon as they could.

2.) Secondly – the flight cost $50. That’s right - $50. I paid a grand total of fifty bucks to fly half the length of Australia. For that kind of money for that kind of delivery, I am willing to tolerate quite a substantial amount of delay and miscommunication.

Now, I understand that not everyone has the luxury of time that others might have – people are on deadlines, etc. But the point I’ll make here is that you get what you pay for. I didn’t expect amazing service, I just expected to arrive safely at my destination. Did they do that? Yes. Box ticked. If I paid, oh, say $150, or $200, or $350 (which is what I paid four years earlier for a similar flight with Qantas – which was delayed for 2 hours), then I wouldn’t have been quite so Zen about the whole thing.

One major delay out of 13 flights is not bad, by any standard.

Several years ago, it was virtually unknown to get a flight out of Brisbane to any of the other major Australian cities for under $300, each way. Virgin’s entrance to the scene certainly made prices marginally more competitive, but it was Tiger’s entry a few years after them that really set the standard for what we have now.

I’ve made 14 flights in total in the last 3 years, and the most I’ve paid for a ticket in that time is $180. That was with Virgin Blue whom, coincidentally, cancelled my flight last Sunday due to volcanic ash from Chile.
Of course, I do not hold them responsible for the cancellation of the flight – safety is of the most paramount importance in these situations. But what I do hold them responsible for is the complete nonchalance their staff displayed in answering questions at the gate when turning customers back, and the lack of communication on their website in the hours that followed.

Tiger also cancelled their flights – but had the insight at least to make an easily recognisable link on the front page of their website explaining the situation, and what they were doing to rectify it. After not hearing anything from Virgin for 18 hours, and watching the seats to all flights out of Melbourne for the rest of the week get more expensive even as they swiftly dwindled, I took the initiative and booked a return flight back to Brisbane to avoid an even lengthier delay. Can you guess who I booked the flight with?

“Oh but Denis!” I hear you cry, “Tiger may be cheap, but they sting you at the airport for the most ludicrous things! They make it so confusing and deliberately trick you into paying all these extras!”

Really? Without wanting to be rude, can I ask – how closely do you pay attention when you’re booking your ticket? Because I generally like to make sure if I’m going on a trip – especially if it’s important – that I’m as prepared as possible. And I hate to break it to you, but the Tiger book-in system quite clearly stipulates where the extras are, every step of the way through the process. I have never been stung by Tiger for hidden fees, and I have never resented Tiger charging extra for services like counter check-in, picking a seat, or boarding first.

Do you know why these things are extra? Because I probably only paid between $70-$90 for the ticket. Other airlines charge more for their tickets BECAUSE THESE THINGS ARE INCLUDED IN THE PRICE. When flying with Tiger, the onus of responsibility is on me to ensure that I am prepared, and thus Tiger takes responsibility of providing me with a cheap alternative to the other major airlines.

If I forget to do a web check in and then have to stand in line, whose fault is it really? Is it Tiger’s for charging extra, or mine for being lax?

Australia is a big place. Living in Brisbane can sometimes feel pretty isolating from our bustling cousins down south. Since Tiger have brought their budget airline to Australia, they have made it easier and cheaper for low-income individuals to get out and see this amazing place we live in.

I’m not saying they’re without their flaws – I for one would like to see them introduce a carbon-offset policy similar to the other major airlines. But for the benefit they have provided, I am deeply grateful, and I will continue to fly with them despite their public perception as a shoddy provider. It’s not up to me who you choose to fly with, I can only outline my opinions from my perspective. And so far, I’ve had no reason to think Tiger are anything but excellent for the prices they charge, and the services they deliver.

And by the way – my guitar got down to Melbourne and back just fine.

P.S. Normally, I wouldn't go to such lengths as this to argue a point, but I had to catch a flight back to Brisbane from Melbourne this morning (at 6am :S) - I was tired and grumpy, and all of the staff were just so lovely and accommodating, I really felt like they needed some defending. Kudos to you Tiger!

The Pits Where Your Digits Join.

I like being drunk.

Not like in an "Oh let's drink our sorrows away and pretend the world doesn't exist" kind of way though.

More in a way like tonight, when we were driving home, and I was wedged in the backseat between a bass amp and a guitar. In the passenger seat, you stuck your arm out the window and had your hand flat, horizontal against the wind, then palm up, pressing forward, alternating with your fingers splayed, feeling the air slip into the pits where your digits join - that place that all too often goes untouched and unfelt.

It reminded me of being a child on long drives with my father through the rural inbetweens of Australia.

When bored, I would wind the window down and stick my bony arm out against the pressure of the wind, and feel the bend of my elbow restrict against the rush; one hundred and twenty kilometres per hour down some indstinct motorway.

I guess that's what I mean when I say I like being drunk.

It's like going somewhere you don't know, and feeling something that you don't feel.

The Ideal Tree.

There is a tree in our backyard that is the ideal of what all trees should look like. Its trunk is precisely straight, and its branches arch out at asymmetrical intervals, which, even though asymmetrical, are spaced just so that viewed as a whole, the tree appears satisfyingly balanced. I’m not sure what kind of tree it is, but its leaves are wide, green and plentiful – and somewhat shaped like starfish.

When we first moved into the house, I remember looking at the tree and being excited to wonder if when autumn fell, its leaves would turn brown and shed themselves around our lawn in a thicket of foliage as colourless and brittle as century-old paper. It’s the end of March now, and I’m still waiting for any of the trees in this city to go bare.

Beneath the tree, there is a singular white chair facing a singular white table. I placed them there with the notion that on my days off, I would sit outside in the shade of this perfect specimen, and write.

But I never do.

I tried it out once or twice, but the ants and mosquitoes constantly biting at my feet and loitering by the tip of my nose distracted me so much that I never got anything done.

Instead, I usually find myself sitting down in the paved courtyard closer to the house when I want to think, or write, or drink tea; and often I look up at the tree with its chair and table, and imagine how poetic I would look sitting there and writing.

When you left, you said, “You only ever loved the idea of me.”

I think I’m beginning to understand what that means.

Forget Everything You Are

The moment demands it.

A sky blanched of love for the earth becomes a nondescript mass of molten, soggy cloud.
The wind tears up from nowhere,
The heat of the day gone, at last,
Lost now in the alchemical boil;
The toil of elements has come thus.

In yonder distance lights from the greyhound track elicit a greenish hue from the diffused mass it screams into,
In other parts of the sky, a purplish bruise soaks in to the cloud-flesh
Inflamed by the continual pressure of our city's ethereal glow.

Rain begins to slant whilst violent flashes of light lick lavishly,
Unseen by us from our balcony,
And punctuated by the irrepressible growl of the storm's thunderous belly.

Now, it is here and hungry.

The wind fucking blows man - it comes at us, full force.
The rain smacks, it hits like a drunken brawler, throwing itself at us with no desire but to
Smash, and enslave.

WE SCREAM INTO IT
WE ARE ONE WITH IT

The storm screams back.

We are recognized,
We are known.

Brisbane: The River's City

The floods came and went, swallowing up chunks of our city only to disgorge them a short while later when its palette found the taste unpleasant; the workings of its gullet leaving a residue of silty brown saliva chalked onto every spare surface and unassuming crevice as a reminder for all its culinary displeasure.

Queensland, the state of which Brisbane is capital, has long promoted itself as 'The Sunshine State;' a fame endeared by its year round summer heat; short to the point of nonexistent winter; and unadulterated sun-worship. And like that motto, Brisbane too is proud of the slogan it boasts through number plates and tourist brochures. 'Brisbane: The River City' - a term given life by the thick mass of water which permeates its core.

Winding like a languid python, the Brisbane river makes a voluptuous curve through the heart of this place, gracefully consenting to the use of its hide for the recreational pleasure of its citizens, the chugging of ungainly shipping containers and river-taxis to ferry tourists along itself; stopping into quays and jetties which thumb themselves out into the waters at opportunistic intervals.
The city itself makes good use of the river, encroaching on its edges like a sycophant; a growing hub of parklands, artificial beaches, towering skylines, art galleries, cafes, restaurants, curiously constructed bridges and roller-coasteresque expressways.

Indeed, the river of Brisbane has always been a source of fascination for myself. Many a time I've spent wandering along its banks, contemplating its allurement. The majestic malleability of its hue is potent; the intoxicating churn of its waters on days furious with the wind is infectious; the reflection of the city lights on a still midnight walk is empowering. Though true enough it is that the most of the world's cities are defined by the water they stand by, nowhere else have I been where a river has felt so concretely perfect for the hub it provides life to. Nowhere else have I been where it felt more comfortable to say that indeed this is, The River City.

Yet in that slogan, there is a telling scent of arrogance. The River City - two words joined by suitable enough association; one natural, the other artificial; one an adjective, the other a noun. Considered as a whole, the slogan implies power to the final word; the former placed so to give the latter a distinctive power over and above that which the former owns of itself.

And so it was that in the second week of 2011, proceeding from a year of rain so continual that The Sunshine State lost all dignity in its title, and ironically began sending tourists to Melbourne instead for the weather, that the river broke its banks. All of a sudden, those terrible years of belly-aching drought grew small and distant in the collective eye as the river, full from gorging on the rains, lazily let its guts spill over, and slyly gave new perspective to the moniker we presumed it to own.