A statue meant to be of the city's namesake had sat unfinished, a
lump of irregular stone with hints of arms and knees, for two years before
the Board of Aldermen managed to get it carried off. Carlton attracted
residents too contentious for the friendlier suburbs further in, and what
little civic pride they had depended on staying that way.
	No Carlton mayor worth the salary would let a bill with significant
permanent effects become law, but in a rare bit of easy business they had
over time acquired the habit of signing off on a small public indulgence:
the semi-annual Kangaroo Week. "People are all so genial in Australia," the
editorial writers said to each other; "Still, it can't hurt to have some
fun every once in a while."
	For a week every January, and again in August, Carlton functioned
in a facsimile of normality. When the comity was too palpable to deny,
Carltonians would end conversations with an abrupt "G'day, mate" and a 
wink to reassure each other it was still a doddle, then scuttle off. The
cardboard kangaroos that lined the main drag for the Opening Parade lent
it a temporary air of liveliness--if not busy, at least crowded. Occasion-
ally someone would think they could make off with one of the cutouts
unnoticed, only to wind up roo-less and roundly stomped.
	Ideas on how to be more Australian could circulate during the rest
of the year, though mostly among homemakers and the indigent. If it did
them much good to be occasional sages, these two ordinarily-despised demo-
graphics, they could hardly have made it known. They were already the
sunniest and most helpful ones during the appointed interval, and the most
sullen otherwise.
	Finally, though, pamphlets passed hand-to-hand on park benches and
at coffeeklatsches acquired a certain cachet among those who didn't mind
shamefully blunt suggestions on becoming generous ("as they are in Mel-
bourne") sitting around the living room as long as they could be seen to
laugh over them when their superiors were present. With demand increasing
and nobody rushing to claim credit for their writing, enterprising editors
compiled longer and longer, more and more authoritative, better and better
selected anthologies of Australiana. Carlton's antipodean dream world, 
cut loose from its calendrical moorings, acquired a few impossible touches.
The truly Australian were said to head human wounds with a mere touch;
Australian leaders, possessed of incredible mercy and wisdom, worked too
hard and too thoughtfully to require representative bodies ruling along-
side them.
	Carlton's city council voted to dissolve the municipality. Public
services had never come reliably enough for anyone to count on them, but
eventually everyone in the former Carlton got curious enough to notice
something was up and open the thick envelope assigning them and their
family to one of four nearby communities. Strangers in their new hometowns,
most of them left their dreams of heaven behind. They didn't need to be
told how nobody probably cared.

	Meanwhile, in the real Australia, war was brewing. Against whom,
they hadn't decided yet, but all craved the feeling of knuckles on chins,
steel against flesh, treads crushing bone.

written for David Levy in my bedroom 3/31/02

I stared at these for several minutes before realizing that I'd gotten it stuck in my head that the celebration in question was an anniversary of some kind, and that was tripping me up. I used to be better at consciously moving the words around, playing with their meanings until I had put them together in a way I thought was sensible without being obvious.

Story's obviously a metaphor for something, but my theories as to what keep not panning out.

I also haven't figured out what impulse it is that I deal with by writing these stories where there aren't actually any characters except "the polity". I think this one actually works better for not descending into specificity much--sure, it reads more like a summary than a story, but at least there isn't any hapless hand-waving trying to change the scope away from what it is.

Whenever I try for a realistic setting (which, uh, I was when I started) I wind up dealing with places that are 'quaint' or parochial. That's sort of condescending. I sure haven't earned it, growing up in Madison and living in Boston for my entire adulthood.

Most of the fun I had writing this came from a few phrases that I'm proud of. The idea of people projecting their better natures onto Australia, abstracting the continent itself out of reality completely, is cute, but I don't know how well I made it clear that was what was happening.

- everything is by Aaron Mandel; please ask first if you're about to steal something -

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