Research notes and drafts,

The clock hands pass two, three, four…

Not even half done.

Procrastination:

Time spent elsewhere, unthinkingly

My only solace.

Words blur into words,

Bibliographies are still

My one true downfall.

This world is ending.

A towering paper hell;

Death by assessment.

The world comes together

In such strange,

Strange

Ways.

I thought you,

Out of all of us,

Would remain

As you were.

I was wrong,

But now you’re happy.

Is it bad of me

To regret?

Ripe mangoes for

A dollar each.

With no sense of dignity

She tore through the fragrant skin

With her fingernails

And bit into the bright orange

Flesh.

The juice dribbled

Everywhere.

I don’t care about your

Raw food diets

With sunflower sprouts

And wheatgrass shots,

Or your no-carb detox

Where you can fit into

Those acid-washed skinny jeans.

I’m going to eat rolled oats,

With full cream milk

And lots of honey,

Whether you like it or not.

We all have in us

An incredibly capacity

For cruelty.

I wish you had listened to me

When I told you that.

I bet you wish that now, too.

I’m sorry.

I know you are in love,

I know that I am

The outsider.

At least

When I have hurt him,

Upset him,

Destroyed him,

He will

Still

Have you,

And I can never,

Ever

Take that away.

I made you a paper flower.

I folded the coloured paper,

And inked in the corners

With a little black pen.

When I walked to your house

It rained,

Very unexpectedly.

Your paper flower did not last long

Before the ink had run,

And the paper tore.

I just made you a paper flower;

I never meant to disappoint you.

We watch you,

We adore you –

Your glittering crowds

Of day and night,

Your sequined masks

Of wine and wealth –

We watch from afar

And we wait for our chance.

One shot at the stars,

One moment to shine,

A parade of glamour

Before the doors are closed.

So we watch,

We see your rise and fall,

We see each

Generation pass.

Perhaps one day

They will let us

Shine again.

I really wanted to like this book, truly I did. It has an airship built in the sixteenth century! It has the battle between reason and faith! It has all the ingredients for a wonderful steampunk-esque story, but, you know, legitimate (because as we all know, fantasy is only legit if teamed with historical elements a là Naomi Novik). I tried my very best to ignore the blinding flaws of the writing in the hopes that it was just the beginning, that it would improve as I got further in, but it was all to no avail. Passarola Rising is Azhar Abidi’s first novel and, despite having work published in the Meanjin and The Best Australian Essays 2004, it shows.

The story is a fictional account of the real historical figures Bartolomeu Lourenco and his brother Alexandre (who narrates) as Bartolomeu plans, builds and finally takes the world’s first airship to the skies. And then they escape the Inquisition! Then they go to Paris! Then they rescue a Polish king! Then they battle with the Russians! Then they go to the North Pole – for science! And don’t be mad if you think I’ve spoiled it for you, since all of that is on the back-cover anyway. I’m kinda miffed that I actually bought the book, because I’m not kidding when I say you can read the 100 word blurb and leave it at that. It’s not that it’s a particularly difficult read, only about three hours all up, but damnit I could’ve been doing something I actually enjoyed for those three hours! Instead, I pushed on, giving up hope about halfway through and then just getting more and more pissed off at it as I continued.

What frustrated me the most was the fact that this had all the potential to be good, but it failed so dismally on any attempt at actually being engaging that all the magic of the adventure was lost in favour of a step-by-step account of “And then we did this, and then we went here, and then I said this, and then I did this, and then we went here some more.” I just want to find Abidi and beat him over the head with this book yelling, “Show, don’t tell! Show, don’t tell!”

So that’s the big flaw; Abidi doesn’t show anything. Oh sure, he describes the events in lovely, if somewhat traditional, description, but that’s what the entire book is comprised of. This is supposed to be written from Alexandre’s perspective as an old man, recounting his days of youth with his older brother who, along with the Passarola, eventually got sucked into a hurricane over the Atlantic while Alexandre is off making googly-moogly eyes at some quickly tacked on love interest in Brazil. Unfortunately for the reader, Alexandre conveniently doesn’t remember what everyone said (you know, despite the crystal-clear recollection he has of all the pretty action bits), so the bits of dialogue and thus real character development are few and far between.

God, I can’t even put my frustration into paragraphs anymore. I’ll leave you with a list and then go watch some Sailor Moon or something.

1. Voltaire being a character (*snort*). He wrote about Alexandre: “His destiny is to describe the world, To favour and to understand it.” Yar, right. Leave Voltaire alone, Abidi. He’s far too good for this book.
2. The brothers cooking a “hearty stew” after a couple of months flying around the North Pole. No, just no. If there’s one thing I hate in any adventure novel, it’s the main characters eating stew on their journey. Do you have any idea how long it takes to make stew? Hours! You don’t just make a stew for the hell of it, you need to plan and prepare stew! Characters eating stew while they are not in an actual household just screams that the author has never made stew in his/her entire life. Stew is the most inconvenient on-the-road food you can possibly think of to make. Make a half-hearted soup or a broth for crying out loud! Stop eating stew. Leave stew alone.
3. Look, I got intensely bored reading the step-by-step account of what Alexandre did onboard the Passarola as they flew around the North Pole, so why the hell would I want to read about action that’s not actually happening? Hallucinations only work if the character isn’t a whiny puss, which he is.
4. What was the point of Alexandre? To tell the story? I might have actually liked this if it was told from Bartolomeu’s point-of-view, because at least he seemed liked an interesting character. Not that we really ever get to know, as Abidi forgoes any attempt at delving into his characters’ inner selves in favour of telling the reader what they did and where they went.
5. Actually, what was the point of the whole story? To fly high and never let anyone get in the way of your dreams? Except, Bartolomeu goes a bit loopy and dies forgotten, and Alexandre gets married and becomes a boring businessman who regrets that he never really amounted to anything. Was it about reason versus faith then? But, despite all the furor about the Church being ridiculously blinded by faith, both brother’s are completely consumed by the church of Reason. And then end up having metaphorical hallucinations about a palace and/or bird in the clouds. Abidi, what are you trying to tell us?

Overall, it’s not a bad book, despite all my complaints. It’s just a thoroughly average book, like an accountant with big dreams but no talent, and no one with the heart to tell him.

Oh, and they leave their loyal dog behind in the streets of Lisbon when running flying away from the Inquisition. Because they’re dicks.

Had some weird things going on in life, but they are now over so posting shall resume as per usual. Apologies to the zero people who were waiting impatiently for something to happen. Cannonball reviews for Passarola Rising, Affection, and Warrior of the Wilderness shall be up as soon as I can be bothered to actually write them. Hopefully by the weekend. Or something. Time and space has lost all meaning anyway.

…I’ll be done when I’m done. Just letting you know I’m A) not dead and B) not lagging behind immensely.

xoxo