“She imagined her life in time lapse, shadows moving in circles away from the sun, the stars scattered like glass from a broken window, flowers wilting..."

Never again. Brooke St, Hobart. March 2021.

Kokomo by Victoria Hannan

Since finishing this book, I've held off writing this review to let my thoughts on the novel distil and settle. Alas, I still hate it. I have no problem with flawed characters (I love 'em). Yet, when the entire story revolves around the arc of two people you neither like, believe or understand, we have trouble.

Let's start with the central character of Mina. She comes across as incredibly immature and childlike. I struggled to connect her with the supposed capacities she has in the workplace. I found her immaturity baffling, whether the opening (clumsy) ode to a 'perfect penis' (on a supreme dick), through to her nightlife habits, childish avoidance of conflict or a complete incapacity to connect in-depth with those around her,

I kept waiting for the narrative arc to swing around with some form of revelation or resolution that explained events. [SPOILER] It would make sense that Mina's internalised sense of grief and loss relates to the appalling treatment at the hands of an unstable and selfish (or more generously) unwell mother. This may explain her attraction to toxic jobs, men and friends. No more is this evident than in her sexual encounters. If I believed that the author had painted the degrading and grim encounters as illustrative of broken and unhealthy sexuality rooted in trauma, it wouldn't have troubled me. Yet it seems not, as the ending points to Brendan as a prospective love interest, despite their sexual encounter reading more like an assault than any meaningful and consensual act.

When the story cycles back around to her father's death, I was amazed to learn that she was in her final year at University (aged 20?). I had assumed that she was closer to 12, such is the childlike frailty of her reactions. It would make sense if there were some effort to explore her relationship with her mother and the trauma and toxicity of that relationship. In its absence, she comes across as an idiot.

Which leads me to... Elaine. Crikey, Elaine is an interesting character. Elaine’s story dominates the second half of the book. It reads more like Fatal Attraction than an empathetic study of mental illness and grief. If we were to flip the gender of Elaine, her stalking and lifelong obsession would become a far darker thing rather than a testament to flawed character.

Frankly, the less said about Elaine, the better. She is one of the least sympathetic and most noxious literary figures that I have ever come across. Whether due to illness or character failure, I could not accept the neat little resolution between mother and daughter at the novel's end. "Oh mum! Thirty-five years of deception, stalking, unhealthy obsession, lying to your family and neglect? Oh well, things happen." [END OF SPOILER]

There are other irritations. What was the point of the Shelly character and her husband if it was to go nowhere? Are we meant to accept that Elaine's trauma was due to that small an issue? Given its initial prominence, the author seems ambivalent towards the corrosive effects of social media. How are we supposed to feel about Kira's Instagram? It is a bit rich to give us a monologue right at the end on the injurious effects of facile and shallow culture into the mouths of an Instagram bikini model and a marketing executive. What on Earth are we to make of Valerie? What is her deal?

I'll stop now. I'm giving it one and a half stars because I made it to the end, vaingloriously expecting some kind of outcome that might explain things. While I’d be happy with unresolved trauma and no hope of anything beyond the fucked up muddling through (honestly, these are my favourite endings), we got THAT!?! Heaven help us if this is this is what passes for 'resolution' in the minds of the next generation!

⭐ 1/2

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

There was nothing left. No reason, no conscience, no understanding; even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil, right or wrong.

Here is a self portrait. I’m calling it Portrait of a lady in a dirty window . Shocking, isn’t it? However, it is apt! Samhain , Nos Galan Gaeaf , Hop-tu-Naa , All Saints , All Hallows , Hallowmas , Hallowe'en or HALLOWEEN . It’s Theme Thursday and we’re talking about the festivals traditionally held at the end of the harvest season. Huh? No wonder Australians have trouble with the concept of HALLOWEEN. For the record, in my thirty-two L O N G years on the planet, I can’t say I’ve ever seen ghosts ‘n goblins, trick ‘n treaters or Michael Myers stalking Tasmania’s streets at the end of October. [That said, I did once see a woman as pale as a ghost turning tricks that looked like Michael Myers in late November one time.] Despite the best efforts of Hollywood, sitcoms, and innumerable companies; it seems Australians are impervious to the [ahem] charms of a corporatized variant of a celebration of the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darke

In dreams begin responsibilities.

A life at sea, that's for me, only I just don't have the BREAD. That's right, Theme Thursday yet again and I post a photo of a yacht dicking about in Bass Strait just off Wynyard. The problem is, I am yet again stuck at work, slogging away, because I knead need the dough . My understanding is that it is the dough that makes the BREAD. And it is the BREAD that buys the yacht. On my salary though, I will be lucky to have enough dough or BREAD for a half dozen dinner rolls. Happy Theme Thursday people, sorry for the rush.

This will hurt me...

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