Tuesday, November 13, 2012

The Intrepid Ghost-Hunters (1):



[Warning Notice: Waitomo Caves Hotel]
[unless otherwise noted, all photographs: Bronwyn Lloyd]

Waitomo Caves


"Did you see any ghosts?"

I don't know how many times I've fielded that particular question since we came back from our weekend away in the picturesque (and famously haunted) Waitomo Caves Hotel.




The straight answer, I'm afraid, is "no." But I do have to make a number of provisos to that. Perhaps, in fact, it would be better to begin by telling you the whole story from the start ...

It was Bronwyn's idea, essentially. She was the one who came up with the notion of a weekend in a haunted house to celebrate my fifieth birthday (yes, I say it without a blush or a shudder: fifty years old today, hooray hooray hooray, you'll never be fifty years old again ... etc. etc. etc. AAAAaaagh! I'm old!!!! ... !!!)

Anyway, she ascertained that the most haunted hotel in New Zealand was the Waitomo Caves Hotel, and so we found ourselves barrelling down the highway towards it on Friday last, 2nd November.




The first sight of it from the road is pretty epic.

They don't exactly advertise, to be honest. All the way from the main road we were running into signs for this backpackers and that B & B -- but the moment you see that vista, you understand why they don't have to. Talk about the Overlook Hotel in The Shining!



[Jay Weidner: Overlook Hotel (1980)]


Actually, from the front, it looks even more like the Stanley Hotel in Colorado, which was used in the filming of the 1997 miniseries (overseen by Stephen King himself, and unfortunately pretty lame by comparison with Kubrick's original masterpiece):



[Big B Bob: Overlook Hotel (1997)]




[Waitomo Caves Hotel (2012)]


Anyway, we followed the long snaking driveway up through the village and towards the hotel itself.










Pretty cool, huh? I have to say that the shots of the hotel on their own website simply do not do it justice.

After that, of course, it was time to explore the interior of the place. Nobody offered to carry our bags, which suited us fine, as it enabled us to snoop around the practically deserted corridors by ourselves (it was early afternoon when we arrived):



[looking down at the lobby]




[one more flight of rickety stairs]




[the creepy corridor]




[the door of our room]




[the spyhole from the inside]


As for the view out of the window, that was quite spectacular, too.




There was a little balcony adjoining it, which we proceeded to explore:






[up, anyone?]


Now, one of the most famously haunted rooms in the hotel is No. 12A (between 12 and 14 -- get it? No hotelier ever wants to label a room "Number 13" for fear of bad consequences). And here it is:







It's situated in a small alcove at the top of the main stairs, but - curiously enough - the first time we looked for it we couldn't find it anywhere! No. 12, that was there - no. 14, too, but no 12A. Later that evening, when we walked back to our room from the restaurant (also famously haunted with orbs and cold spots), we spotted it right away. Weird - or what! ...

The owners of the hotel sure have interesting taste in art. This cheerful piece was up on the wall opposite our room:




Kind of puts one in mind of this masterpiece from the original Shining, wouldn't you say?



Or even this shot from the more recent - and rather underrated - Stephen King film about a haunted hotel, Room 1408 [Get it? 1 + 4 + 0 + 8 = 13! Bwah, hah ha ha ha!]



[sengook: Room 1408 (2007)]


More to the point, though, is this rather atmospheric painting of the original discovery of the glow-worm caves, which is pretty much the first thing you see when you come into the hotel:






[The first discovery of the GLOW WORM GROTTO
by FRED MACE and TANE TINORAU - December 28th 1887
]








Enough of all these atmosphere shots, though. What of the investigation? Bronwyn's already written a post on her blog about her preparations for the trip, and -- in particular -- the ghost kit she put together for the occasion.

With all due respect to her subsequent post lamenting a general absence of ghosts, I think I'd have to say that the evidence does really have to be allowed to speak for itself.

First of all (and most impressively), there's the undoubted movement of a trigger object during our first night in Room 7. As you can see below, the stone adze has clearly moved - not much, but a little - between the first shot and the second. We'd drawn a pencil line around it, and there was a perceptible shift in its position.







Now, it's true to say that it's a very old wooden hotel (the wing we were in was opened in 1910), and it creaks and groans quite a lot - and anyone moving around outside can cause the floorboards to shift ... So maybe that explains the shifting adze. But the direction of the movement was not what one would predict from the slight slope in our bedroom floor.

Also, the shift took place while I was reading out a particularly creepy version of the story of the terrible ghost Glám from Grettir's Saga. This story certainly seemed to strike more of a chord than any of the others we read aloud on either night. Certainly there was no further movement in any of our trigger objects after that first one:



[Power Objects (Night 2)]


Secondly, there's the series of strange coincidences that plagued us throughout the trip. Here's an example of one of them, a notice dating from 1962, the year of my birth, situated oh-so-casually up on the wall near our room. (Do remember that this was a jaunt designed to celebrate my fiftieth birthday):




And there was the fact that, when we stopped for breakfast at a cafe in Te Kuiti after our first night in the hotel, the number we were given at the counter was "50" - and there was the fact that Bronwyn got a distinct feeling of coldness and paralysis just while I was reading out a story from Lord Halifax's Ghost Book called "Here I Am Again!" which described just such a feeling in its protagonist ...

Easy enough to write off individually, but taken in aggregate, perhaps less so. Who can say? They certainly struck me as a little ... suggestive, overall.

There's no denying the beauty of the hotel grounds, and their rather neglected state just adds to the effect.




The back of the building is almost as good as the front:




The old walkway down to the caves is too overgrown to follow now, unfortunately:




Up above the hotel is an old, dried-up fountain:




and a wishing well.



[photo: JR)]


It's the path leading down to the village that's really spectacular, though:




There are fine old trees ...




with strange faces visible in their bark ...




and up in their branches ...




There are strange overgrown glades ...




and a picturesque old park ...




with a great view of the hotel ...




from the balcony of the pub ...




before you have to climb back up again.




What can I say in conclusion? We didn't detect any orbs or clouds of mist (or ectoplasm) in any of our photos - but we did feel some strange twinges when we said disrespectful things about the place. Make of that what you will.

So, no, we didn't actually see any ghosts, but I wouldn't be prepared to swear that there weren't any lurking around. It's certainly one of the most atmospheric places I've ever stayed, and there is that strange detail of the moving stone adze ...





Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Celanie Launch Sunday 25th November



[cover design: Ellen Portch / Cover image: Emma Smith]


This is the first Pania Press booklaunch since we put out the Orange Roughy anthology back in 2008.

So, once again, you are all most cordially invited to join us in the spacious back garden of:

No. 6 Hastings Rd,
Mairangi Bay
North Shore City
Auckland

from 2 to 4 pm
on Sunday, 25th November

(refreshments and home baking provided)





The books being launched are:
Celanie: Poems & Drawings after Paul Celan. Poems by Jack Ross & Drawings by Emma Smith. Introduction by Jack Ross. Afterword by Bronwyn Lloyd (Auckland: Pania Press, 2012)
[RRP: $30 / special launch price: $25]

&

brief 46: the survival issue. Ed. Bronwyn Lloyd (Auckland: The Writers Group, 2012)
[RRP: $17 / special launch price: $15]

also

An exhibition of Emma Smith’s “Celanie” series will be on display, and framed drawings will be available for purchase
[special launch price: $250 each]


Once again Michele Leggott has kindly consented to come along and launch them for us.



You can find out more details about the book of Celan poems and drawings here, and more about brief magazine here.

So, just as a little sampler, here's one of my translations (from Celan's "Matière de Bretagne" [13/8/57]), accompanied by one of Emma Smith's beautiful, haunting images from the book:

Matter of Britain


Gorselight, yellow, slopes
against the skyThorn
disinfects your woundsRing
out, it’s eveningNothing
crosses the sea to pray
The bloodred sheet sets sail for you

Arid, dried-out, bed
behind youScar-
invadedStar-
embossedmilky inlets
in the vaseDate
stones underneath, furred blue
tufts of forgetfulness
your memory

(Do you know me
hands? I went
by the forked route you showed
me, my mouth spat pebbles, I walked
through snowdrifts, shadow – do you know me?)

Hands, the thorn-
burnt wound rings out
Hands, nothing, the sea
Hands, in the gorse-light
the bloody sheet
sets sail for you

You
you teach
you teach your hands
you teach your hands, you teach
you teach your hands
to sleep


[first published in brief 41 (2010)]




Sunday, October 21, 2012

Two Writers (2): Michael Morrissey



[Michael Morrissey: Tropic of Skorpeo (2012)]


A couple of weeks ago I received a package in the mail at work. Funnily enough, it turned out to be a book: Michael Morrissey's latest, in fact. Tropic of Skorpeo, it's called, with a somewhat garish cover designed - I guess - to pull in the youth vote.

Being no stranger to garish covers myself - witness Nights with Giordano Bruno (2000) - I certainly didn't hold that against it. The contents, though, take a bit more getting used to.

Before I get onto that, though, perhaps I should explain why I'm juxtaposing Michael Morrissey with Salman Rushdie as the "two writers" of these two posts. Is it the extremity of the contrast? One world-famous, the other "famous in New Zealand"?

Well, yes, in a way. Mainly, though, it's because Morrissey too has published a memoir, Taming the Tiger, which must have been every bit as difficult to write as Rushdie's whale of a book.

While Rushdie has had to endure the assault of millions pouring execrations on his name around the globe, at least he had the satisfaction of knowing he was right: the cacophany came from outside him, and he was backed by a legion of friends and admirers. It's not that I mean to underestimate what he's been through, but being such a celebrated, virtually world-historical figure must have helped keep him afloat.

Michael Morrissey is mad. I know that's a blunt and insensitive way to put it. Most people would prefer to talk of his "struggle with bipolar disease" or (as the subtitle of his own book puts it) his "Personal Encounter with Manic Depression." Nor has the problem gone away as a result of writing about it.

Costa Botes' recent documentary about Morrissey recorded further manic outbreaks after the ones chronicled in his book (published in a greatly abridged form, he's told us, from the original immense typescript), and there seems little evidence that he can ever feel any assurance of being completely free of it.

So the appearance of a new book from him is not a neutral matter. Whatever one's opinion of it, or the new book of poems which accompanies it, his courage and perseverence must at the very least be saluted.

I guess, then, the point of the comparison with Rushdie is to emphasise that there are many ways to inhabit the title "writer" - but the value of what you do is certainly not determined solely by the number of your readers or the amount of fuss each new title causes.



[Michael Morrissey: Taming the Tiger (2011)]


Here's a mini-bibliography of Morrissey's works to date:
    Poetry:

  1. Morrissey, Michael. Make Love in All the Rooms. Dunedin: Caveman Press, 1978.
  2. Morrissey, Michael. Closer to the Bone: Poems. Christchurch: Sword Press, 1981.
  3. Morrissey, Michael. She's Not the Child of Sylvia Plath. Christchurch: Sword Press, 1981.
  4. Morrissey, Michael. Dreams. Wellington: Sword Press, 1981.
  5. Morrissey, Michael. Taking in the View. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1986.
  6. Morrissey, Michael. New Zealand - What Went Wrong?. Auckland: Van Guard Xpress, 1988.
  7. Morrissey, Michael. Dr Strangelove's Prescription. Auckland: Van Guard Xpress, 1988.
  8. Morrissey, Michael. A Case of Briefs. Auckland: Van Guard Xpress, 1989.
  9. Morrissey, Michael. The American Hero Loosens His Tie. Auckland: Van Guard Xpress, 1989.
  10. Morrissey, Michael. From the Swimming Pool Question. New Plymouth: Zenith, 2005.
  11. Morrissey, Michael. Memory Gene Pool. Governor's Bay, Lyttelton: Cold Hub Press, 2012.
Fiction:

  1. Morrissey, Michael. The Fat Lady & The Astronomer: Some Persons, Persuasions, Paranoias, and Places You Ought to Encounter. Christchurch: Sword Press, 1981. [short stories]
  2. Morrissey, Michael. Octavio’s Last Invention. Auckland: Brick Row, 1991. [short stories]
  3. Morrissey, Michael. Paradise to Come. Auckland: Flamingo, 1997. [2 novellas]
  4. Morrissey, Michael. Heart of the Volcano. Auckland: Bookcaster Press, 2000. [novella]
  5. Morrissey, Michael. Tropic of Skorpeo. Wellington: Steam Press, 2012. [SF novel]
Non-fiction:
  1. Morrissey, Michael. Taming the Tiger: A Personal Encounter with Manic Depression. Auckland: Polygraphia Ltd., 2011. [memoir]
Edited:
  1. Morrissey, Michael, Mike Johnson & Rosemary Menzies, ed. The Globe Tapes. Auckland: Hard Echo Press, 1985. [poetry]
  2. Morrissey, Michael, ed. The New Fiction. Auckland: Lindon Publishing, 1985. [edited, with a long critical introduction]
  3. Morrissey, Michael, ed. New Zealand's Top 10. Auckland: Moa Beckett, 1993. [a book of lists]
  4. Morrissey, Michael, ed. The Flamingo Anthology of New Zealand Short Stories. Auckland: Flamingo, 2000. [extended edition, 2004]



[Ian Wishart / Investigate: Michael Morrissey]


But what about Tropic of Skorpeo in particular, you ask? Is it any good? It's going to be launched - together with:

MEMORY GENE POOL

a chapbook of 28 pages

from Cold Hub Press
"who some say

[Morrissey remarks modestly]
is now NZ's leading poetry publisher"

this Thursday (25th October), from 5.30 on,
at the New Zealand Society of Authors offices,
4th Floor, Duthie Whyte Building, 120 Mayoral Drive
(cnr Mayoral Drive & Wakefield Street)



"Punkoids! Slutoids! Octopus!" proclaims the front cover of Morrissey's novel. His publisher, Steam Press of Wellington, quotes its author's description of it as a “sci-fi fantasy in satiric-thriller mode”, then adds that:
This book will blow your socks off – sexy, shocking, and hilarious, this is the story that Lewis Carroll would have written if he’d been into science fiction and consumed more than his fair share of LSD.

All this puts me in mind of a certain far-off occasion when I sent a copy of my own second novel, The Imaginary Museum of Atlantis (2006) to Michael to be "noticed" in the literary column he was then writing for Ian Wishart's Investigate magazine. This is what he came up with [Investigate 6 (69) (October 2006): 84]:
Tired of airport books? Bored by Tom Clancy and Dan Brown? Wearied by puerile web sites? Seeking a challenge? Try a “novel” by Dr Jack Ross. I use quotes here because rather than a novel with identifiable characters, a plot, realistic detail etc this is an assemblage, a collage of texts of the most extraordinary variation. Ross’s method variously reminded me of Borges, Eco and Nabokov though he pushes the boundaries of the avant garde further than any of the above — further also than the reviewer who enjoyed something of a reputation as an avant gardist back in the 80s.

... if you have the kind of mind that enjoys cryptic cross words, codes, and esoterica, this book can keep you busy for hours. Better make that days, weeks, years. Ross’s book won’t be for everyone but it’s more than challenging. You might think of it as The Atlantis Code — with footnotes.

I was a little horrified to find that this column appeared in the same issue of the magazine that "outed" Helen Clark's husband as a closet gay (complete with blurry pictures of him allegedly "kissing" men at various public events), but I've never had a problem with Morrissey's characterisation of my book. It seems pretty fair to me - especially the company he puts me in.

Tropic of Skorpeo is certainly every bit as bold in attempting to bend the laws of genre and probability to its author's own will. Morrissey dedicates the book to Lewis Carroll and Alfred Bester (author of Tiger, Tiger and other classic works of '50s sci-fi), so it's apparent that it's intended to inhabit the region of Fantasy and SF - though with a stronger-than-usual admixture of black humour.

Certain aspects of his plot put me in mind of Mike Johnson's recent "graphic novel" Travesty, reviewed by me here. There's the same interest in unstable virtual realities overlapping and contradicting one another. Where Mike's tone is dire and apocalyptic, though, Morrissey's is more buoyant, almost - at times - (dare one say it?) shrill.

The revelation that his heroine, Princess Juraletta, has no fewer than four breasts, on both sides of her body, in the very first chapter is succeeded by a number of prurient scenes where she is ogled at and seduced by a variety of real and not-so-real gallants.

What, then, is this book's intended audience? The original publicity material described it as ideal summer reading, light fiction for the beach. That can hardly be true, though. I'd say, myself, that the book was completely insane: that you would have to be mad to enjoy it, or to have conceived it in the first place. Which I guess is the point.

Its author, after all, is mad: has said as much himself. Where his earlier fictions ranged from the Barthelme-like fables of The Fat Lady & The Astronomer (1981) to the gentle postmodernism of Doctorow's Ragtime in his classic story "Jack Kerouac Sat Down beside the Wanganui River & Wept," it's hard to see this latest sally as an artistic advance, exactly. Paradise to Come (1997), his book of two novellas describing New Zealand's most distant and most recent waves of immigration, remains Morrissey's most accomplished and moving fiction to date, I feel.

Nor does it seem unapposite to my original comparison of Morrissey with Rushdie to recall the furore caused at the former's booklaunch when the dinghy full of Spanish conquistadors who'd been hired to reenact their original, mythic landing in New Zealand were set upon by a group of Maori protestors indignant at this European pre-emption of the landings of the great tribal canoes ... Literature certainly made the news that day, even in little ol' New Zealand.

Funnily enough, a few days before that event I'd been walking along the shore at Devonport with my father when we suddenly saw a boat-full of men in renaissance armour rowing towards the beach at - I think - Cheltenham. While it's obvious enough now that they were simply rehearsing their "official" landing a few days later at the launch, I have to say that that explanation did not occur to me at the time. It was a very surrealist moment - not least because nobody paid the least attention to them: all of us too embarrassed to admit the evidence of our own eyes, I suppose.

I do, then, have to admit that I prefer those earlier works of Morrissey's where a basic sense of Sargesonian realism underlies his taste for the extravagant and postmodern: most of the contents of his two books of short stories, in fact, as well as the three novellas. It remains to be seen if his latest, Tropic of Skorpeo, will succeed in attracting the virtual-reality-game-playing youth market it appears to be designed to allure. I certainly hope so.

What I do admire about it, though, is that determined, indefatigable spirit which keeps Morrissey writing, forever trying new things, long after literary fashion and his fifteen minutes of fame have moved on. This may not be the book that repairs his literary fortunes, but it certainly has its place as a companion volume to Taming the Tiger. One thing's for certain. He won't give up. He'll keep on writing, keep on experimenting, perpetually waiting for what Robert Lowell called "the blessèd break."

In that sense, then, Michael Morrissey embodies the "writer as hero" every bit as much as Salman Rushdie. Knowing that your worst opponents live in your own mind is, for me, an even more horrible fate than being burnt in effigy around the globe - "I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams," as Hamlet put it.

If Morrissey's dreams are anything like the shifting, self-undermining sub-realities of Tropic of Skorpeo then they must be pretty terrifying. His triumph is that he's dared to write them down.



[Michael Morrissey, ed.: The New Fiction (1985)]