The worth and value of a man is in his heart and his will; there lies his real honour. Valour is the strength, not of legs and arms, but of heart and soul; it consists not in the worth of our horse or our weapons, but in our own. He who falls obstinate in his courage, if he has fallen, he fights on his knees. He who relaxes none of his assurance, no matter how great the danger of imminent death; who, giving up his soul, still looks firmly and scornfully at his enemy - he is beaten not by us, but by fortune; he is killed, not conquered.
The most valiant are sometimes the most unfortunate. Thus there are triumphant defeats that rival victories. Nor did those four sister victories, the fairest that the sun ever set eyes on - Salamis, Platae, Mycale, and Sicily - ever dare match all their combined glory against the glory of the annihilation of King Leonidas and his men at the Pass of Thermopylae.
- Montaigne [translated by Donald M. Frame]
August 25th, 1997
I suppose the best way to launch this page is to indulge in a little 'autobiography'. My name is Adrian Gunadi and I've only just finished my high school education at Jakarta International School, Indonesia. Feel free to e-mail me with any inquiries about that country; I'm currently settling disputes that we live without hot water in thatch villages. Actually, JIS (as we fondly call it) is one of the best schools in Southeast-Asia. It's based on the American system, which explains the general looks of bemusement I get now that I'm attending university in Australia. Most of my close friends have scattered to various parts of the globe - some migrating to the desolate reaches of Europe, others to India and the States.
Okay, that's enough of my ramblings for the day. I think I'll take the opportunity to do some exploring of my own. Ciao.
November 7th, 1997
In order to save space, I'm going to take time out every once in a while to 'compress' this page - plucking away all the worthless entries and combining the others into fluid 'strings'. As a result, you may notice a change in the format or text of certain older entries.
Secondly, if you're anything close to being a regular viewer of this site, you'll have slowly gotten an idea of my own tastes. My own writing is somewhat flashy, emphasizing style, which is why I'm rarely able to sustain it more than a few pages. But as to what stuff I like to delve into myself... well, it all depends on what kind of mood I'm in. For heroic fantasy, my personal favourite is still David Gemmell. His books have a continuum - which means that the characters live and breathe under a shared history, and the world changes independently of them. In the Drenai Saga (that's the shared continuum I was talking about), I have a particular affinity to Druss the Legend, The Legend of Deathwalker and The King Beyond the Gate. Brilliant stuff. Of his other books, I also recommend Morningstar and Lion of Macedon, although you might be swayed to the apocalyptic gun-toting anti-heroism of the Jon Shannow Trilogy.
With science-fiction stories, it's a little harder to pick favorites. My best bet at the moment would have to be Joe Haldeman. He's got more Hugo Awards under his belt than any other writer alive (that's an exaggeration, but not by much). He has a nice, gritty way of writing which really sits well with the type of books he writes. Have a go at The Forever War to see what I mean. But he's also great at writing shorter fiction, which is good, since that means I can look up to him as a guide. I just bought his collection of short stories (four of which have won the Hugo Award and Nebula Award), None So Blind. I'm half-way through it, but loving every second.
Another writer that I like is Dan Simmons. He tends to be more ambivalent than Haldeman, splitting his time between horror and science-fiction. Even though Simmons' novels have won Hugo Awards as well, it doesn't put me in sync the way Haldeman's books do. But that's okay. Because Dan Simmons also happens to be the best short-story writer in the business. Check out Prayers to Broken Stones, or even Hyperion. Damn good stuff.
Finally, some well-written novels from otherwise mediocre authors: Robert J. Sawyer's The Terminal Experiment and Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game. Anyway, feel free to drop by an email if you'd like to put in your two cents' worth.
November 15th, 1997
'At the heart of every story is a sound - something so deep that it resonates like a pressure in your chest.' Edward Zick wrote that as the introduction for his film, Legends of the Fall, and it's a sentiment that I'm quite willing to support. If you've read the article by Harlan Ellison (on my Page of Writing), then you'll also know that it's an understanding echoed in writing. And it's true. If I don't hear this primal song somewhere deep in the recesses of my soul, this gut feeling that tells me I've somehow managed to bypass the human consciousness, then I scrap the work without another thought. And I'm not bitter about losing days (or even weeks) of labor. Because - quite simply - if I don't have that feeling, then the work wasn't worth it to begin with.
The same, I gather, is true of every medium. Let's take the specific case of music. If a song doesn't make you walk away without feeling some vestige of emotion (whether sadness or anger or joy), then it wasn't music to begin with. It wasn't worth the time you spent listening to it.
One of the most disturbing trends I've noticed is an increasing blindness to the boundary between music and drivel. It galls me that so many lackwits are able to just sit in front of a television and just soak up hours and hours worth of fast-paced, badly-edited video clips. Shows like MTV feed off the diseased flotsam that passes itself off for 'art' in the modern world. The whiney screams of Mariah Carey. The suave babble of Puff Daddy. The discordant mangling of Oasis. The general hysteria of the Spice Girls. And what's worse is that these dime-a-dozen 'musicians' (and I use the term loosely) know that they're producing trash. Why do you think they bother to remake so many classic songs? As for me, I'd rather endure a slow and painful death than listen to Tina Arena's 'Burn' one more time.
December 11th, 1997
If you haven't figured it out yet, I'm no longer in Australia, but enjoying an extended three month vacation back in Jakarta. While that might seem paradise to some (especially those of you suffering through university exams right about now), it also means I've traded in my state-of-the-art equipment for a lousy Pentium-90 and a 14.4 modem. Grrrr. Loading pages at the speed of molasses sort of dampens my enthusiasm to add to this page frequently. Nevertheless, I plan on doing some serious writing while I'm here.
January 16-20, 1998
Massive overhaul, as I tear out the guts of my site. Gone are most of the midi music (although I couldn't bear to part with Pachabel's Canon), the roleplaying section and that little unlisted link on my update page. Why, do you ask? I'm going to go for a much stronger thematic feel in my page, whichs means I pretty much have to get rid of the sci-fi aspects. I've also taken down some backgrounds (to be replaced with better ones soon), and added to my quotes. Oh yeah, and my links page has been chopped almost in half. I found most of them pretty redundant actually. Anyway, with less than a month before I get back to Australia, I'm slowly getting back into the swing of things. So be prepared for many, many more unexpected changes to come. Ciao.
January 30-February 28, 1998
Embedded a URL-minder program on the 'Creative' page. Alas, university is going to start up again in another two days - at which point I become, officially, an English & Film Studies major. What that means in terms of this site is that I'll no longer be able to update it with periodic works of my own, since that would automatically void the value of anything I might put up. It makes sense in a slightly bizarre way: why would publishers bother paying writers and film-makers, if they could just grab the same stuff off the guy's homepage? Would an audience really want to watch a movie when they've already read the ending on-line?
Before you start feeling too sorry for me, remember I did walk into this deal with my eyes open. The work that's already up is basically my gift to whoever happens to take enough of an interest (I'm assuming it's the person reading this). It's not like I'm all tapped out of ideas; there are at least three or four pages of synopsises sitting on my hard drive at the moment, just begging to be written.
This isn't the swan song for this website either. Let's just say that Avatar Realm is going to undergo a little bit of much-needed transformation - because after all, isn't that the whole point to being creative?
I thought I'd close with the opening scene from a script I'm writing. I think it makes a pretty effective epilogue to this phase of my life:
Writing. People always seem to get this funny idea that there's nothing really to it - just sit down, think of enough crowd-pleasing garbage to last a couple of hours, slap it onto paper and prepare for the financial windfall. There's a catch, though. Actually, about six billion of them. Because with that many other minds sharing the same earth, it's a good bet that your oh-so-stellar idea's been thought of before. You can hand-weave a thousand copyrights onto that baby, but chances are, you'll still find yourself in court against some poor bastard who's written the exact damn thing in Sanskrit. There's not a writer in the world today who doesn't wish he could perform unlicensed surgery on the guy who dreamed up the Internet.
In every human being, there's a limited supply of energy. Of enthusiasm for life. Every writer taps into that a little bit for their inspiration. They invest themselves into the very bones of their work. When it all goes horribly wrong, the writer loses a bit of himself that way; but when it all goes right, the writer gets a karmic high like you wouldn't believe. Writing, more than any other profession in the world, can suck out that zest like no tomorrow. Years of toeing the poverty line, of rejection and humiliation get rid of the weak ones fast. Whoever's left is pure barracuda. Pure shark. Because no-one gets gnawed on like that without becoming a little dead.
My name's Jason Mahony. And I'm one of the sharks.
March 20th, 1998
Looking back on my previous logs, I've pretty much rhapsodized on the topics of writing and music. I guess it's time to bite the bullet and take a look at the only major topic left to talk about - religion.
Since my interests run right through the 'subjective' arts - history, theatre, philosophy, film and literature - I pretty much have to keep an open view on organized belief systems. Personally, I tend to classify myself as a 'fuzzy' atheist. What that means is that while I don't subscribe to any religion in particular, I don't have to rule out the existence of a higher power either. Instead, I look at the history of religion (particularly Catholicism) as a form of mythology, with all the trappings and textures thereof. Much of my own writing, especially of late, are attempts to merge the ruthlessness of technology with characters that imbue at least some form of religious symbolism. I'm undeniably lured to that mysterious synergy which seems prevalent in most great religious texts; the helplessness of human beings as they watch titanic forces struggle overhead for the most basic of concepts - light and darkness, love and hatred, life and death.
The reason I mention this at all, is that this love for religious myth has surprisingly managed to seep into my homepage as well. I've steered clear of making it too much of an overt influence; regardless, most of the images and nomme de geurres that I've chosen bely my interest in the subject matter.
Rest assured, I'm making no judgement on modern religion itself. What other people get from copiously quoting the bible or exploring their so-called 'spiritual selves', I get from popping in a Live CD or reading Dan Simmon's 'Remembering Siri'. My world isn't the blindness of fanaticism, nor indeed, that of cold logic. Instead, it is a combination of the both. It is, in the last analysis, nothing more than my world.
March 23rd, 1998
Attention. Everybody with a hatred for poetry in general and Homer's Odyssey in particular, I'm about to say something which will profoundly change your life. There should be a fascinating modern poem circulating around your local bookstores under the name, War Music. It's written by Christopher Logue and can best be described as an updated version of the Iliad.
It gets better and better. See, War Music is extremely cheap, it runs only eighty pages in total (the size of an average Sherlock Holmes story), and reads more like fiction than poetry. Plus, it's chock full of the good stuff as well - war, bloodshed, betrayal, kingship and magic, as only the Greeks could have pulled off.
Christopher Logue has to be the best poet of our times I have ever had the pleasure of reading (excepting, perhaps, the late Robert Frost). Not convinced yet? Then go find yourself a copy of War Music. I swear to you, it won't even dent your wallet.
April 18th, 1998
Once again, time has slipped through my fingers - and as a result, my duties to this homepage have been sorely neglected. My only excuse is that I've been away from home and hearth for the past week. Part of my atonement has been to return and find 56 email messages waiting in the recess of my computer; and another part is to be, by my own imposition, a brief account of what transpired during that eventful week.
The plan was simple: to take a Toyota Landcruiser and head out across the vast stretch of land occupying the eastern coast of Australia. Looking back on it all, I estimate we must have travelled an excess of 3000km and guzzled down close to $200 worth of diesel. Was it worth it? The answer lies in the immortal Cressy Man's favorite saying - 'absolutely'.
Along with Bruno's friend, Andrew, our little triumvirate headed out from Newcastle on Easter Sunday. We spent a large part of the next few days admiring the scenic beauty of farmland Australia, held in check only by the looming threat of heavy rain, gusty winds and thunderclouds. Along the way, we stopped by to see Andrew's grandfather, an extremely spry and charismatic war veteran. Just in the two hours that we spent in his company, I must have reaped enough knowledge to keep me suitably in awe for the next couple of months.
Once we reached Noosa Heads (just north of Brisbane), things really started to heat up. We traded in the sparse interiors of the Mud Sub for luxurious bedrooms in Bruno's resort apartment. Between stretches of 4Wdriving, I managed to catch brief glimpses of wild foxes and other exotic animals... but the best part came when we encountered a pack of kangaroos. At first, I could only make out two of them, peering back at us in the vague darkness; yet as they bounded away from the landcruiser, more and more of them emerged from the brush. I must have counted at least eight or ten of them, sleek bundles of fur racing through the woods like quicksilver. If anything, Queensland's sloping hills are some of the most beautiful I have ever seen. There's nothing quite like coasting forward along forest trails while veiled in a soft mist.
We also had enough time to do more of the traditional beach-type stuff. Andrew had the good fortune of witnessing an electrical storm while wandering alone across the early morning sand. We spent a couple of hours getting thrown about by waves easily half again as tall as Bruno (six-foot-seven at last count), then made our way back to the rooms in order to enjoy finely-barbequed steak and wine. We finished by arguing philosophy well into the wee hours of the night, riffing on everything from the meaning of life to contemporary music.
On Friday afternoon, we pulled away from Noosa for the last time, determined to make it all the way through to Newcastle by early Saturday - and succeed, we did. The ivory of the moon had faded from full to half, allowing us a spectacular view of the stars. As we pulled into Newcastle at 3am, I watched a shooting star gleam far above... perhaps a portent of things to come? Only time will tell.
May 7th, 1998
As the counter slowly inches towards 500, I think it's time for me to take a deep breath and reflect on the fact that a woman could have given birth in the amount of time that this site has been up and running. Talk about humbling. Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who's visited (and revisited) the site while it went through its gestation period. However, following my recent desire to change focus a little bit (see entry Jan 30/Feb 28 on the 'CW' page), I've been having a bit of a problem thinking of new features to add instead. Anybody remotely interested in pitching in ideas, please send mail to shade@tig.com.au, or contact me on ICQ (Balladeer, 1719372).
May 16th, 1998
As many of you know, my family has been trapped in the middle of Indonesia. The country has degenerated into a massive struggle between loyalist military forces and rioters. The death toll has risen dramatically in the last few days. Buildings that I've frequented, shops that I've perused, places that have capitivated my imagination and my memory - all burnt to the ground. Often with people trapped inside of them.
The best way to describe it is as a horror story come to life. One that could possible swallow whole my family, my friends and my past in one fell swipe.
While I wait and hope for the best, I've been writing some poetry. It's not directly linked to the Jakarta turmoil, but it captures much of my mood just after I heard the news.
May 22nd, 1998
Sorry to keep everyone in suspense - my family got out fine. In related news (actually, not really), I've added a new audio wave file from the Goo Goo Doll song, 'Iris', to my main page; and I've also changed the link to Merlin's Class of 97 page so that it actually goes somewhere. And finally, although I wasn't a close friend of Alex Leiper during my tenure at JIS, my condolensces go out to his family for their loss.
June 29th, 1998
Here's another caveat in the flow of my life: I've always considered ancient Greece to be the greatest single civilization in the history of the world. They were the progenitors of modern philosophy, religion, mathematics and astronomy - yet beyond that, they were also the only nation to have lived and died as an example of human achievement. More often than not, Greek heroes came from the annals of history rather than myth. Their leaders were a testament to a courage and pride which has since been emulated, but never surpassed.
When Persia marched against Greece with an army that numbered more than a quarter of a million men, it was the Spartan king Leonidas that fought them to a standstill at the Pass of Thermopylae - with only 300 men. Or the strategic genius, Epaminondas; whom, upon hearing that the great Pelopidas was being held captive by a tyrant, immediately gave up his generalship so that he could serve in the army dispatched to rescue his friend; the same man who died in poverty, unwanting of wealth or fame. And of course, Alexander of Macedon, the boy who brought Asia to its knees and wept when there were no more worlds left to conquer.
Truly, the Greeks were less than perfect. These enormous gifts of the heart and the mind were squandered, more often then not, on the desolate fields of war. But for what it's worth, they celebrated life the only way they could - by the sword - and if one were to separate their methods from their intentions, it becomes clear that they were a people worthy of respect.
July 17th, 1998
I actually met David Gemmell in person, earlier this week - apparently, he's stopped by Sydney on a promotional tour for his latest novel. I took advantage of one of his rare breaks in order to talk to him about several matters, including ancient Greek history (a personal interest of mine that grew out of his work) and several other authorial-related matters. I didn't go away empty-handed either; at the conclusion of our conversation (which went on far longer than the store clerks might have liked), I walked away with a handshake and two signed books from a man who is, not only the perennial historical-fantasy author of his generation, but a master storyteller of the very first calibre.
July 19th, 1998
As of this week, I've been forced to capitulate Netscape Navigator 4.04 in favor of Microsoft Explorer software that can best make use of my (new) Windows 98 package. As such, it's come to my attention that certain features of my page - which was optimized to run under Navigator - now turns out horribly wrong when using the loathsome and onerous Explorer. I've made adjustments as I've seen fit, so bear with me on this count.
July 20th, 1998
Since this page has already taken certain liberties with copyright infringements, I didn't think it would hurt too much if I added another segment to 'Reprinted Articles'. This one comes from a novel called Wyrm by Mark Fabi, and ties together many ideas which have floated around this site - memes, religion, the Nietzsche collective and evolution, just to name a few. Pretty heady stuff, but I think it makes a strong case without becoming psychotic or obscure.
July 31st, 1998
Thanks to my warped schedule, I've become a university sophomore almost a full six months ahead of my Australian compatriots (don't ask). There's not much difference to first year, actually - just that my subjects are now infinitely more interesting and informative. My combined range of courses for this semester include 'studying' contemporary movies (Pulp Fiction, Bladerunner, The Long Kiss Goodnight), John Milton's Paradise Lost (an epic poem on angels), some scattered creative writing, a look at cultural modus operandi, and undoubtedly much, much more. Anyway, there's not really much depth to this little log entry - I just wanted to show people I'm still alive and kicking.
August 4th, 1998
One of the hardest questions I have ever faced is also a deceptively simple one. It goes something like, 'What do you think of poetry?' (It ranks behind only two others on my list of irritating queries - 'Do you believe in God?' and 'Do you think mathematics is a universal language?'). Amazingly enough, these three questions have come up - in one form or another - during the space of these last couple of days.
But the one subject I thought I'd tackle today is that of poetry. My main argument, which you're going to hear variations of, is that poetry suffers heavily - especially in comparison to good narrative prose - on a variety of counts.
The first is that poetry comes too easily. No, let me amend that statement - bad poetry comes too easily to people. Poetry, more than any other literary form, can corrupt itself, twist itself until nothing is left but fanboy imitation. It's quite one thing to recognize Renaissance influences in history; quite another thing to be locked in the same bizarre triangle of 'love', 'death' and 'eternity' today. Honestly, there's more to poetry than rehashing those well-worn themes.
The second danger is that more mundane minds use poetry as some sort of glorified notebook. These are people who lack higher capacities for imagination, who end up resorting on variations of 'I see water trickling, it makes me feel good'. At its best, poetry can be inspirational and quietly reflective; at its worst, poetry can make you want to go out and spend hours actually looking at water trickling, rather than hear some writer describe doing it. Poetry is not merely about form; it also needs a measure of content. Robert Frost writes about common-day experiences, but imbues them with heartfelt emotion; Christopher Logue uses poetry as a recounting of myth; Shakespeare deliveres political satire through his collection of sonnets. In contrast, poetry today lacks the fundamentals.
Likewise, it's easy to forgoe form entirely. How often have you seen poetry that seems nothing more than the product of a writer with narcolepsy? Rhyme scheme, extended metaphors, alliteration, foreshadowing, rhythm - these words should be ringing bells like crazy. If not, I suggest putting your pen to rest and grabbing a literary dictionary instead.
Third, it must be stressed that poetry is designed as a form of short epiphany - you get in, you get out. It involves a very narrow focus, a very select group of characters and a very concentrated subject matter. To be honest, I've never even seen good amateur poetry. My own attempts are, almost without exception, failures.
Because of these inherent pitfalls, poetry writing must be treated as a wild and untamable beast rather than as an affable alternative to 'real' writing. Certainly, it has merit on its own, but unlike other genres, it also lacks forgiveness. I'm sick of reading ill-conceived poetry by writers who have no inkling of what they're doing. This might be news to some, but the Romantic movement died out in the 18th century. The last thing we need is a return to form.
And you should hear me on that question of mathematics.
