On February 10th I’ll be reading some Bukowski-inspired poems at Spoken: Tales of a Dirty Old Man. This is a gig seriously outside of my comfort zone, and I’m researching, reading and writing this week. Who knows what might happen! Come along and find out. Here’s the poster: SPOKEN.

I’m delighted to announce I’ll be joining co-poetry editor Jessica Alice on the editorial committee of Voiceworks Magazine as something of a Brisbane representative. Express Media have supported my poetry for years, and I’ve always wanted an opportunity to help out–but Melbourne is even Down Underer than here is. Now we have the Internets and Skype and magic!

So far I’m sticking to my resolutions: write often, submit often (to journals and stuff, that is!), and read more. (I’m reading Damon Galgut’s In A Strange Room, Tom Robbins’ Skinny Legs and All, and Krissy Kneen’s sensual and touching Affection. Oh, and Thomas Harris’ Silence of the Lambs for funzies.)

Otherwise, I’m hermited away in my office writing grant applications and working away at freelance projects. This weather transforms our lower storey (i.e. where I exist) into a damp, chilly cabin in the woods, and “home office” comes to mean “in bed with hot water bottle, laptop, and giant octopus plushie.” But it works, and I have the company of Delirium and Sigmund, betta fish who determinedly blow bubbles at me when they’re happy.

]]> http://zenobiafrost.wordpress.com/2012/01/25/tales-from-the-gutter/feed/ 1 Zen http://zenobiafrost.wordpress.com/2012/01/10/cant-be-artsed-mini-reviews-1/ http://zenobiafrost.wordpress.com/2012/01/10/cant-be-artsed-mini-reviews-1/#comments Tue, 10 Jan 2012 18:00:47 +0000 Zenobia Frost http://zenobiafrost.wordpress.com/?p=615 ]]> Welcome to the first edition of my Can’t Be Artsed mini-reviews of All the Things. Here’s this week’s motley offering: The Dresden Dolls, James and the Giant Peach, and Sherlock Holmes — A Game of Thrones.

Music: The Dresden Dolls (The Tivoli, Jan 5)

I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Amanda Palmer live three times in Brisbane, but though I’ve listened to their albums for years I’d never before seen The Dresden Dolls (Palmer with drummer Brian Viglione) do their thing together. Holy fuck, it was an intense and glorious evening.

Tom Dickens’ (The Jane Austen Argument) lovely vocals opened the show. A brief Briefs interlude was delightful, as expected—Davey Gravy shticks his shtick so well, and Captain Kidd’s sparkly cocktopus is a joy to behold (and he’s an incredible hoopist). I was thrilled to see The Bedroom Philosopher again—though he gigs in Brisbane semi-regularly, fate often thwarts my attendance. Acronymphomaniac, with the lyrics, “I eat SNAGs for breakfast,” is especially rad.

Palmer and Viglione’s dynamic is so natural you feel they might wordlessly improvise, like two dancers — both leading, never stepping on toes. It’s enthralling. So is Brian, both as a highly talented percussionist and a man with no shirt on.

With a half-hour encore, I was pretty sore by the end of the gig — and fairly deaf, but I now grok what Dresden Dolls fans have been extolling for years: this duo is a powerhouse.

Let’s start the year positively; five semicolons for The Dresden Dolls. ; ; ; ; ;

Theatre: James and the Giant Peach

Aimed at the 4–8 set, I figured I was still of a reasonable height to see this Harvest Rain adaptation of the Roald Dahl adventure that begins with the protagonist’s parents being gobbled up by a rhinoceros in London and ends in a giant peach in New York. I also took my dad — and we wound up having a fun time, even joining in on the pantomime-style audience interaction.

Josh McIntosh’s costumes are gorgeous (especially Aunt Sponge and Spiker’s frocks) and the homely peach itself is pretty cool. Tim O’Connor (Jesus Christ Superstar) directs this production, and it touched even us oldies. Still, the music was a letdown: tinned orchestration and cheery but forgettable tunes. Variable microphone efficacy didn’t help.

When I spoke to Jack Kelly (playing an earnest young James) for Rave Magazine, he said poor old Earthworm (Belinda Heit) was his favourite character. I have to agree: the blind, legless sadsack has an Eeyore charm. I also liked Dash Kruck’s cockney centipede who goes on to work in a sock factory.

It was quite novel to see a one-hour play at QPAC. I was swept away until the end — and would’ve liked some more, but — alas — it was bedtime for James.

I give it three and a half semicolons.

; ; ; :

James circumnavigates the world in his peach until Jan 21. Call 136 246 or book at www.qpac.com.au

Film: Sherlock Holmes II—A Game of Shadows

This pseudo-Sherlock adventure launches guns-a-blazin’ and doesn’t let up until curtains, just over two hours later.

Robert Downey Jr is amusing as a slightly psychic ninja Bernard Black. He doesn’t deduce things so much as know them — we learn this through lots of flashing from Significant Foreshadowing Thing to the next. He demonstrates how clever he is by quoting Schubert. We know Moriaty (Jared Harris) is just as clever because he can quote Schubert back and then make witty comments about trout. More importantly, they can both narrate their own actions whilst boxing. Stephen Fry as Mycroft Holmes is great because Stephen Fry is great; for part of the film he is naked. Good. Jude Law sports a Village People moustache..

There are some gypsies in the movie. You can tell because they’re dirty and they steal things from their friends and they eat hedgehog. Are the Romani the last bastion of acceptable racism in cinema? Noomi Rapace, very far from her role as Lisbeth in that-film-with-a-lot-of-sexual-assault-in-it, plays a dim gypsy in a cute hat looking for her brother or something.

But it is fun (spot the amusing anachronisms), and there is air conditioning. (Today was hot enough to kill — seriously, my panda cories fried in their tank.)

Two semicolons. ; ;

Please let me know what you think of Can’t Be Artsed or suggest Things (any things at all!) I might like to review. I hope you enjoyed this photo of Robert Downey Jr as a half-naked, half-in-drag Sherlock smoking on the floor in a train during a gunfight.

I should also cut 2011 a little slack: the year ended well, in poetry at least. I was thrilled to be awarded third place in the John Marsden Awards for Young Writers for a poem called auf wiedersehen spiegeltent. It should be up on the Express Media website soon if you’d like to read it, otherwise I’ll plonk it here at some point. And that poet I live with, Jeremy Thompson, had a well-deserved success at UQ: he won the Ford Memorial Prize for Poetry. Just to bring it all full circle, both of us had pieces published in the latest issue of Voiceworks (#87 Play).

My new year’s resolutions are to blog more frequently, write a poem a week (at least!), submit more writing and apply for more opportunities, and start a dream journal. (Seriously, weird things go on in my brain at night. I shouldn’t let those ideas slide!) So far I’ve used Freedom a lot to keep focused and I’ve blocked most of the silly blogs I read regularly, with the exception of Sex is not the Enemy and Oglaf.

As a final note, I’ve been listening to Flap! all week, and I recommend that you check out their album. They produce ear-to-ear grins and bounciness. Oh, and I saw The Dresden Dolls a few days ago at The Tivoli. It was amazing! I’ve seen Amanda a few times, but Brian’s incredible drumming creates a sound that’s quite different–and really rich. And loud. Hooray!

Happy new year, readers. I hope 2012 is the year it all falls into place.

It’s impossible not to turn the volume right up by track three (There’s Not a Step We Can’t Take That Does Not Bring Us Closer), when the strings and audience-chorus kick in. Close your eyes and Webley’s before you, accordion in hand, hat defying gravity, making the stage shake, and you—there, in your office chair, with your unexpected Thursday morning package from Seattle—you are feeling very, very good.

Oh, hullo there. Sorry—music trance.

My favourite song on the album is the title track, which features some delicious violin moments (Timb Harris) and swelling vocals. Catchy tune Saviour—one I’d never heard before—is another track it’s safe to put on repeat. And, as a final comment, it’s great to have the full Drinking Song spiel if only to have a “very simple, very effective, and extremely economical method” of getting sloshed at one’s beck and call.

Mr Webley’s taking the year off, and there are only 1111 copies of In This Light (and I have number 0444)—so  godspeed! Buy the physical album at www.jasonwebley.com or listen for free/purchase mp3s at Jason’s Bandcamp.

http://www.jasonwebley.com/images/11_14%20In%20this%20light.jpg

This year, QPF published a limited-edition anthology containing a poem by every poet on the program. There were 100 copies available on Friday…and five left on Sunday evening, so rather a successful little venture! Here’s my poem from the collection, in case you weren’t one of the lucky 95. (It’s 5/7 of a sonnet, and was published in Overland last year as part of a collaborative poetry mash-up.)

Before the Funeral

You find her in the kitchen and your lungs empty.
This is the room where they cornered the fox,
the fox that panicked through the hall in the storm,
that your brothers crushed into unsealed wood:
that stain there. The window is open.
Evergreens are all puffed up. Nothing grows
from the bones of the fox. Dishcloths are stiff
on the rail where she split her head; the blood
has frozen before it could stain. Your legs try
to turn you. The volta catches in your throat.

My first collaboration with Jeremy Thompson, Petrichor, also disappeared quickly from the bookstore. Thank you kind souls! There’s only one left of the print run — perhaps we will get crafty and put together a second edition in time for our trip to Victoria later this year. I’ll be appearing at Passionate Tongues, at Melbourne’s Brunswick Hotel, on September 26.

This post-festival winding down is only an illusion. Brisbane Festival launches this week, so if you are looking for me, I’ll be in the Spiegeltent all month, madly scrambling across tightropes, balancing deadlines. For now, the John Marsden Prize closes at 5pm, so my last task for tonight/this morning is to choose a poem. Me?! Make my mind up about something?! Bah!

Queensland Poetry Festival is this weekend (August 26–28). I’ve just spent two weeks on the couch entertaining the EKKA flu with six seasons of Red Dwarf and a little bit of The X Files. I’ll be emceeing opening night, Of Rhythm and Rapture, so I’m coaxing my voice back with pot after pot of lemon and ginger tea.

You mustn’t miss:

• Of Rhythm and Rapture: Friday, 7.30 pm — Sandra Thibodeaux, Sawako Nakayasu, Jacob Polley
• A Babble of Skywalkers: Saturday, 10.30 am — Jeremy Thompson, Red Room
• Filled with Ink: Saturday, 1.30 pm — Ron Pretty, Jaya Savige, Jacob Polley
• A Tattoo of Light: Saturday, 4 pm — Joanne Featherstone, Matt Hetherington, Zenobia Frost
• All is Roar and Crash: Saturday, 4 pm — Kevin Gillam, Andy White, Marisa Allen
• A Million Bright Things: Saturday, 8 pm — A short set from every poet on the program
• That Profound Machine: Sunday, 5pm — QPF Filmmakers showcase
• Onwards to Infinity: Sunday, 7pm — Closing night, with encore performances

In other QPF-related news, I will have a new chapbook available at the QPF: a handmade, limited-edition collaboration with poet Jeremy Thompson. Look out for it at the bookstore — it’s called Petrichor: Two Poets, and it sports gorgeous cover art by Bettina Walsh (The Voyage). Petrichor contains new work, including some co-written bits and pieces, and revisits a few old friends. Reward us for a whole weekend spent folding and stapling by grabbing one — there are only 20 in existence! And they have magic semicolons on the back!

In less-QPF-related news, Head over to the Australian Women’s Book Review to read my review of Pam Schlinder’s debut collection, A Sky You Could Fall Into. Then go and do yourself a favour by reading Pam’s book (Post Pressed, 2010).

Personally, I’m looking forward to a festival weekend. And losing the cough means getting back to the theatre: Animal Farm (QPAC) this week and The Hamlet Apocalypse (La Boite) next week. Fortunately Cabaret kept me happy — and thoroughly earwormed — in between episodes of Red Dwarf, curries, and lager milkshakes.

]]> http://zenobiafrost.wordpress.com/2011/08/23/countdown-to-qpf/feed/ 0 Zen http://zenobiafrost.wordpress.com/2011/06/12/going-wrong-in-the-mindtank-etc/ http://zenobiafrost.wordpress.com/2011/06/12/going-wrong-in-the-mindtank-etc/#comments Sun, 12 Jun 2011 07:25:06 +0000 Zenobia Frost http://zenobiafrost.wordpress.com/?p=571 ]]> Or: Scattered Study-Rambles

The trouble with being Zen is that when I latch onto a topic, I want to learn it from head to toe, only pausing to linger on erogenous zones. I read obsessively, and then I ruminate, and then—usually—I write and write until I feel like I’ve got it figured out. So it is a pity that SlutWalk (and all its associated debates) has taken off around the world right when I’m meant to be studying for English Lit. and Ancient History exams.

As much as Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Ancient Greek magical papyri are indeed fascinating (and I say that with no sarcasm), right now I want to be reading and writing about consent, sluttery, and the way our societies define appropriate relationships. I’ve got a whole folder of essays and blogs just waiting to be devoured.

Meanwhile, I’ve also had to take a crash course in water chemistry after setting up a fish tank on a whim without—naughty me—doing any research at all. There are now several matchbox-coffins buried in the garden. Turns out tank-ecosystems are just as complicated as human ecosystems. But there’s one significant difference: you can buy testing kits for water, and they tell you exactly what your fishies need.

Yes, I’m about to use this as the lamest analogy ever. I’m so sorry.

Perhaps one of the biggest issues surrounding consent is the question of how much communication—verbal and nonverbal—is sufficient to equal “yes” or “no” in any relationship: new, old, monogamous, polyamorous, long-term, short-term, one night stand, poly, married, unmarried, straight, queer, vanilla or kinky.

I could write mountains, but why when the wonderful Jaclyn Friedman has done the job for me in her Yes Means Yes article on Enthusiastic Consent and its “(nonexistent) terrible, horrible, no good, very bad” consequences. I thought it was time to repost that link; it’s compulsory reading for anyone who loves others and/or has sex.

There are no Aquarium Testing Kits for human relationships (yep, still sorry for that analogy). Fortunately, all you have to do is ask. Unfortunately, all you have to do is ask. Navigating relationships—of any kind—requires trust, honesty, clarity and all those other pesky things we don’t want to think about when we’re feeling nervous, awkward, embarrassed, guilty, ashamed, or any of the other negative emotions we tend to learn in our earliest years.

I feel like I’m getting better at it, but like cycling my fish tank (honestly, Zen?), it takes time. And often, salt.

SlutWalk’s best effect, globally, has been to raise questions. I hope critics and supporters alike keep on asking. If we open a public dialogue on consent and relationships, so to might dialogues open up in private.

Keep up the momentum. But filter everything you read through that brain of yours, and don’t forget to come up for air now and then.

Back to Ovid…

(P.S. The Scavenger published my SlutWalk blog. Yay!)

cemetery man top hat

fizz de mitology

dandelion and driftwood

freak scientist

accordion walls

she’s a rat trap if i ever seen one

iggy pop body fat

james bond hat guy

Jason Webley Married?

buried up to neck and stoned

big orange tits

skylarking in the workplace

palatal voiceless fricative

most common search term: Tupperware (268x)

Update 12/06/11: Online magazine The Scavenger kindly published this blog post in their latest edition.

My own research led me to conclude that the real aim of SlutWalk was to help change cultural attitudes towards sexual assault and its survivors. Regardless of what we’re calling it, that’s a cause I can get behind—so I gathered up my housemates (male and female) and off we went to SlutWalk.

Still, some commentators (such as Gail Dines, and Melinda Tankard Reist and Tory Shepherd—who makes some better comments here—at The Punch) have questioned the name of the movement; they challenge whether associating themselves with this event is likely to do more damage than good. Many women don’t want to reclaim the word ‘slut’, fearing that to do so would give men even more license to objectify them—to view them as sex toys.

These are certainly fair concerns, but I think they misunderstand SlutWalk’s aims. The trouble, as I see it, is that they are not the only ones for whom this is unclear: I’ve read numerous posts regarding SlutWalk from men who would’ve liked to come along to claim one or two participants at the rally. After all, if they’re all sluts, won’t it be easy pickings?

Well, let’s look at sluttery in more detail.

Woman in crowd holds placard that says, "It's not my fault--just don't rape." Photo by EJ Mina.

What is a slut?

Typically, a slut is a woman who is sexually promiscuous and/or who dresses in a manner that isn’t modest. Oxford English Dictionary gives a number of definitions. Examples of usage of the most common—“a woman of a low or loose character; a bold or impudent girl; a hussy, jade”—date back to 1450. Another definition, dating back to the early 1400s, is “a woman of dirty, slovenly, or untidy habits or appearance; a foul slattern.”

These days, most women have been called a slut at some stage—sometimes by their parents, their peers, their boyfriends, bullies, siblings. We are called sluts for dressing “immodestly” or “untidily”—perhaps exposing cleavage or leg, wearing skirts instead of pants, wearing pants instead of skirts (unfeminine), or choosing tailored or figure-hugging clothes. Only a few decades ago, we might have been called sluts for not wearing pantyhose or forgetting our gloves. Furthermore, we are called sluts for being sexual and enjoying it (or, alas, for having sex and not enjoying it), regardless of whether with one person or multiple people, at a young age, later in life, with protection, outside of marriage, with men, with women, or both.

Any excuse can be found to call someone a slut or treat them like one. My housemate proved this on the way to SlutWalk: like me, she wore what she felt comfortable in—a fairly conservative dress, exposing none of the “three Bs” we weren’t allowed to show at school dances: boobs, bum, belly. The flowing skirt came down to the knee. Yet, on the way, one group of men honked their horn and yelled obscenities from their car as she walked along the road in broad daylight. Next, an older man on the bus made advances and followed her off (she called me to come and rescue her). She couldn’t help but ask, “Is it because I’m wearing a dress? Do I look like a slut?”

Thus it seems “slut” is an already-empty word that signifies an excuse to approach, harass or belittle a woman.

Four women hold placards saying, "We're not asking for it. Our clothes are not our consent." Photo by Sarah Meggitt.

Why reclaim “slut”?

Given its connotations, I understand the hesitation to reclaim “slut.” In fact, I think hesitation is wise—this is something we need to consider in detail. But I also understand the desire to take the sting out of it; after all, it’s essential that we reframe the qualities and activities associated with sluttery and remove the stigma.

Whatever you want to call it, there’s nothing inherently wrong with wearing low-cut tops, skirts, pants, pantyhose, no pantyhose, and so on (I’ll leave good and bad taste to the fashion experts); it’s up to the looker to decide how to look. And there’s nothing wrong with of-age persons enjoying safe, consensual sex.

Is maintaining “slut” as a “bad word” contributing to slut shaming? Or would it be better to eradicate the word entirely—or strip it of its negative connotations, imbuing it with positive ones? With such a wide definition, all women (and men) might be called sluts. Is it better to say, “No, I’m not a slut—the way I behave is fine?” or “So what if I am a slut? It’s none of your business”?

I don’t have an answer to those questions, and would welcome discussion. If everyone can agree on what the reclamation signifies (that is, not that women may be treated according to the OED definition), reclaiming “slut” is perhaps one way to start breaking down the cultural attitudes that lead to slut shaming.

Placard in the crowd says, "Consent is sexy." Photo by Matt McKillop.

Slut shaming and rape apology

Sexual assault and rape are unlike any other crimes, because we treat them differently. The law holds thieves and murderers accountable for their actions, but when someone is sexually assaulted, often we look to the victim (female or male) to find out why it happened. Friends, family members, partners, counsellors, police officers might (and you can guarantee at least some will) ask:

• What were you wearing?
• Did you lead him/her on?
• What did you think would happen if you went to place X under Y circumstances?
• Did you fight him/her off properly?

Or say:

• But you’re not a virgin anyway.
• But you’ve said yes to sex with that person before.
• You should have known.
• Well, men (if it was a man) aren’t to be trusted.
• If you don’t go to the police, you must be lying.
• You’re not acting like a real rape victim would; you just regret the sex.

It happens in Australia. Remember footballer Spida Everitt’s comments last year about what a girl should expect when she goes home with a guy? Recall Kerri-Anne Kennerly’s comment around the same time about “stray” women? In court last week, a sex offender (fortunately convicted) argued that he was aroused and provoked by the way Australian women dress. And have a look at this Australian educational video warning against sexting, which places all responsibility—and shame—onto the photographed girl.

But it also happens all around the world. In the news today, female protesters in Egypt have been arrested and subjected to “virginity tests.” The reason given by a senior Egyptian general was as follows: “We didn’t want them to say we had sexually assaulted or raped them, so we wanted to prove that they weren’t virgins in the first place,” the general said. “None of them were (virgins).” That is to say, because they weren’t virgins (of course, there is no medical way to determine virginity), they can’t have been raped—they were already despoiled.

In short, there are men and women from all cultures and of all ages who believe that rape victims incite, provoke or even invite their own sexual assault. This logic is faulty; it suggests that those who assault and/or rape don’t have control over their own actions. Statistics show that those who rape are overwhelmingly men; are we to accept the sexist assumption that men have no capacity to control their impulses, and violent impulses at that? Are we also to accept that men are more manipulative, less compassionate than women?

We can’t tar all men (just as we can’t all women) with the same brush. I love and respect the men in my life, and it would be doing them an injustice to say tell them they have less impulse control than I do. The men (and women) who do rape, however, must be held accountable for their own actions. Anything less denigrates both men (and their “uncontrollable lusts”) and women (with their “irresistible desirability”). Sexual assault, however and wherever it’s committed, is inexcusable. “But she was just a slut” is definitely not an excuse.

The best way, I feel, to help fight a culture that condones sexual assault is to change the way we think about the victims and survivors of rape. Let’s teach our sons, daughters, students and peers about sexual boundaries and what it means to give informed, enthusiastic consent and graciously accept non-consent. Let’s teach them to be assertive about sexual health and safety—as well as social safety and comfort (put so well by Phaedra Starling in Schrödinger’s Rapist). Let’s teach them to blame the perpetrator, not the victim—and maybe then, with less fear and doubt, more victims will be able to report assault to police. Let’s teach them that there’s no “right” or “normal” way to respond to trauma. And let’s be there for them—without blaming, without slut shaming—if they ever fear or experience sexual assault.

Men holding placards walk alongside a police car. Photo by EJ Mina.

SlutWalk Brisbane

To wrap up this epic blog post (and many thanks if you got this far), I’d like to write about how I felt at SlutWalk. As I said 1000 words ago, I wasn’t sure up until the last minute whether I should attend, but I decided I would make the rally an empowering experience for me. After all, I had the support of my partner, my housemates, old friends and new.

There were about 400 people at SlutWalk Brisbane, and I was really surprised—and delighted—by how many men were in attendance. There were people wearing conservative clothes, costumes, naughty clothes, nearly no clothes, and people cross-dressing. Police were there to clear the way for our march and keep us safe—I for one was grateful for QPS’s support. It felt fantastic—and fantastically safe—to be surrounded by people who feel the same way I do about consent and sex. The vibe was warm and friendly. There were a lot of smiles, and more than a few people with tears in their eyes. How good, after all, to have hundreds of people around you saying, “It is not and was not your fault.”

Whether or not SlutWalk’s moniker is contentious, it achieved its goals for me—and I’m very glad of that. Whether or not it helps to change cultural attitudes toward sexual assault—that rape is inevitable or excusable—is yet to be seen, but I have high hopes. After all, SlutWalk’s controversy has gotten everyone talking. Talking about consent is a great first step towards building a society where one can choose to come home at 3 am, whether for sex, cuddles or a cup of Milo, without anyone else deciding for them or judging their decisions.

Woman holds placard that reads, "We're here for that cup of MILO." Photo by EJ Mina.

Check out Ms Naughty’s video of SlutWalk Brisbane here. Thank you to the kind souls who let me use their photos: EJ Mina Photography, Sarah Meggitt Photography, and Matt McKillop. If you’re pictured here and would prefer not to be, just let me know and I’ll remove the photo.

Further Reading:
Feminist critics of SlutWalk have forgotten that language is not a commodity

The (Nonexistent) Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Consequences of Enthusiastic Consent

But this time we need a different system — something new. A brilliant hall or lounge with comfy chairs and bright teapots. Homemade cakes. Space and light and wonderful sound. Brisbane is a funny place for venues, especially with the loss of The Troubadour, so I need a little help to make this happen (funding applications aside — there’s a holiday project for me).

There are two roads we can go down, I think: informal and unticketed (e.g. BYO picnic food–something like this could even be held in a library) or structured, ticketed and fancier. Both can be fun; the latter is better, because performers gets paid — but I don’t want to make tickets expensive. Superior People come from all walks, after all.

Anyhow, just some thoughts. If you are interested or have any ideas, please comment away. Ruby Fizz would be so delighted to have you all for tea again.