The launch party for The Macabre Modern and Other Morbidities
took place on Sunday, 25 August 2019 at the Don Bank Museum in North Sydney...In the days leading up to the launch, there was a gale blowing. But now, right now, the weather is perfect. Warm but not hot, a light breeze occasionally stirring the white azalea which has contrived to bloom early in this nineteenth century well, sheltered on all sides by the anonymous walls of skyscrapers. This is Rotwang's house in Metropolis – the old house untouched by time. Ferns, old brick and lingering camellias. It smells like my grandmother's garden.
There are hats. So many marvellous hats—Laura's black felt with white ostrich feather, Danny's steeple crown (I never knew he owned such a thing), Rebecca's exquisite topper of black netting, even James wore a black fedora. Black brocade glistens in the sunlight, black lace slides over the paving past a plethora of buckled boots. David looms attractively in his heavy, black army coat, that can't have seen the sun in decades. White tablecloths ripple lightly, topped with bright bouquets and an interesting range of china, bearing delicacies to tempt gloved fingers.
It behoves me to record the exact delights on offer -
Dainty sandwiches. Gouda cheese triangles on seeded spelt bread, fluted cucumber circles on white (sprinkled lightly with parsley), chicken and lettuce fingers on white (ditto) and thinly sliced roast beef seasoned with mustard and red pepper puree, on white, in crustless squares.
Llyn's gluten free, low GI zucchini and fetta fritters with red pepper dip.
Gluten and dairy free, Low GI carrot, avocado and almond terrine with Carmen brand 5 seed crackers.
Spelt cupcakes, double carob and vanilla with pink icing. Both in polka-dot cups, adorned with candy pearls.
Gluten-free lemon polenta slice. This was gorgeous. After Rebecca helped me cut it into squares, there was not a crumb left!
Carob chip spelt cookies.
Jam fancies, with cherry jam.
Llyn's almond coconut macaroons, gluten free and possibly low GI?
Mini kebabs of pineapple, paw-paw and honeydew melon with Nib Nob brand dark chocolate dipping sauce.
My mother's mixed batch of date and pumpkin scones. They were wheat flour but Rebecca and I each had to have just one.
Black tea, green tea, mint. Sugar cubes, honey, dairy and soy milk. Carafes of iced water.
Over cups of tea, cakes and biscuits balanced precariously on the saucer, conversations proceed about music, books and art. There are quarterly catch-ups taking place, and perhaps deeper matters are discussed with heads bent close on secluded benches.
Until now the music has been unobtrusive, light glissades of string and piano. Suddenly, it becomes a dirge. And now, here comes the cortege, passing by the picket fence and winding up the path. Tim Jackson in the lead, sombre in suit and tie, then David and Rebecca each supporting a side of the miniature, black casket. Behind it, a figure in full Victorian veil and weeds, clasping a bouquet of black, silk roses. Through the veil, her face is pale and...odd-looking. Oddly shaped.
They lead us into the combined dining room and parlour; clunky, old Venetian windows thrown open to the air and the verandah. The Don Bank cottage is a museum, there are glass-doored cabinets displaying old crockery and pill boxes, an ancient Singer sewing machine – in a back room stands a full-sized scythe. Sepia photos hang from the picture rail: could the original owners have envisaged such a gathering, to such purpose? On a black-draped table at the far end of the space, gleam books. The cortege places the tiny casket before them as Leigh Blackmore welcomes the assembly to the death of a new book from my blood-dipped pen.
He flatters outrageously, calling me a major weird poet. So does Danny. I respond by thanking them for putting up with me, especially David, “when I was constructing a coffin on the dining table. And it wasn't the first time!” Danny and I open the little casket, revealing a stash of the glistening new paperbacks, and the book is launched. It behoves me to give the audience a sample of what's inside.
“The danse macabre's initial scheme,
“Was quite the medieval meme.”
But what comes here? As the music once again swells, it is the strange mourner, stalking through the crowd and pressing hands, offering mute condolence.
“The present author... has reworked it some,
“To suit this new millennium.”
Placing her bouquet before the casket, she is overcome with grief, grasping for the mantlepiece to support her sobs. In the process, parts of her lavish costume come loose. Regaining the centre, she flings back her veil, revealing the face of death itself! Slowly, she divests herself of her remaining weeds, until a skeleton stands before us, wearing a jaunty top hat. A bony, jerky dance follows, as she attempts to draw first this person then another onto the floor. Llyn declines, shaking her head firmly. But Tim appears all too happy to join the skeleton in a jerky waltz, before being rejected. She comes up to me and bows, offering a single white lily. We have rehearsed this maybe twice earlier, but we both understand what this is about. I take the lily bashfully, and allow her to lead me into the centre. In close embrace we spin, faster and faster, until I succeed in flinging her off! I cast the flower after her with imperious disdain and point for her to leave. It's all exactly as I envisioned, only better. And then, I smile.
“The fact remains, each book is writ,
“By one whose expertise and wit,
“Or lack thereof, brings it to be
“The author is not dead...”
The applause, finally, feels deserved. I share it as is proper, bringing Venus back for her curtain call, thanking Craig and Barb who stage-managed, Scar, the composer, Jon and Darwin who filmed, Llyn who catered and Rebecca and Iain who have been taking photos all this time. Then, when things calm a little, I give them “Mourning Rites”, which seems to go down well. I thank them all for coming and announce that Danny has copies to sell. Now, I am seated in one of the chairs, signing books for some time. I hadn't planned what to write, just as I hadn't really planned what to say. Things just come out, wishes that we be friends till the final page, and that this book may offer comfort to those in need. Will people read these? Will they actually read the book?
At last, I can squeeze in a cup of tea – Carmen makes it for me, the dear. There are many people who did not come, even among those who confirmed, but she is not one and nor is Liviu. The party is breaking up: farewells are said, future meetings proposed, as the last cupcakes and jam fancies mysteriously disappear. People are changing out of costume; Llyn, Craig and Barb are clearing and cleaning plates with amazing efficiency. Everything is done much sooner than I had anticipated: before meeting us at the Macelleria in Newtown, various people go home to feed the cat.
Not us. In my new black jacket, jeans and cereus tee, I wander with David down Enmore Road, watching the lights come on. I feel exhausted, stunned almost. I should stop moving, should just sit down but I can't. I don;t know what I've done, if its anything at all. As the night closes in, as we return to the Macelleria, it starts to rain.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ankh_hpl , Marge Simon, Angela Yuriko Smith, Christina Sng and many, many more. I can't speak for any of them (although a read-through will turn up a certain sense of - theme), but this poem came to me during those first weeks in April. And that spider was absolutely real.
