The Last Hurrah

11 years and 3 months ago I had this idea, probably delusional as it turned out, that if I set aside chunks of time to clack away at the keyboard on a regular basis and produce a blog, the creative cogs in my brain would then fall into place, whirr into action and spur me on to greater things.

Has that happened? Of course not. Which begs the question, how badly did I really want to embark on something greater? What happened to that novel locked inside me waiting to burst forth? Not much, as it turned out. I find it difficult to sustain a project past a few chapters. I'm not bad at beginnings, it's just that annoying middle part where you actually have to bring the story and its characters to life, and the end part where you have to pull it all together and tie up the loose ends, that brings me undone.

I have a short attention span when it comes to writing, which explains not only the dwindling number of entries on this blog over the past few years, but why I ventured into writing a daily haiku for two straight years in 2017 and 2018, the second year of which was presented online as the Haiku Diary 2018, complete with poems, reflections and photos. Nothing much else made it on to any page anywhere for those two years. You'd think coming up with three lines a day would be a cinch, but getting to the essence of an experience or observation in no more than seventeen syllables had its challenges, so after feeling somewhat haiku'd out I must admit to writing only a few in the last couple of years.

Have dabbled in writing short stories, which sounds simple enough, but there's a real art to writing a compelling short story, and despite consuming hundreds by other authors, very few really grab me. The short story section in my bookcase has taken up quite a bit of space with the many volumes picked up over the years, but as I doubt I will read them again they have been bagged up and deposited at the local op shop for someone else to enjoy, all bar a few favourites. The novel is the dream, but self-doubt looms like an ever-present black cloud, menacing, ready to put a dampener on my feeble efforts. It's not permanently over my head, so that's at least promising.

So why all this whining you might say. As Nike so aptly put it, Just Do It. Obviously easier said than done, and I've reminded myself of this mantra on countless occasions, but as evidenced in my personal journal, I have arrived at this point more times than I care to admit. At one level I know what to do, but don't seem to have the wherewithal to move forward, so once again I arrive at where I started this little rant, how badly do I want it?

I read prolifically, and gaze with envy at row after row of other people's creative achievements every time I enter a bookshop. I scour second-hand bookshops, and find some of my most interesting discoveries have introduced me to authors I have never come across before and inspired me no end. But then there's the debilitating effect of doubting I will ever have an offering to add to all those shiny bright brand new releases which seem to pop up with amazing regularity, sometimes even with authors in tow for the obligatory book signing.

There are indeed countless writers out there, published and unpublished, scribbling and clacking away with enthusiasm day after day, despite their own personal versions of self-doubt, for I've yet to meet any creative person who is not dogged by the fear of not being able to come up with the goods. Of never being able to produce not only one, but another book or painting, sculpture, film, song, poem, musical composition or dance or whatever art form they're immersed in, to justify their reason for being and satisfy that constant urge to bring something from its embryonic stage into full life.

For a woman to birth something other than children and then mother it with the same sense of purpose, attention and care jumped distinctly off the page from Sue Monk Kidd's latest novel The Book of Longings. It reminded me of my first few posts back in 2009 when I too wrote of bringing something to birth; the expectation, mixed feelings, the waiting and the labour involved as the stages followed their natural course.

So I've come full circle. I'm back where I started, with a dream, a desire, and still asking myself the question whether I have what it takes. The only proactive step I've taken is to come to the realisation it's high time I embarked on a new venture, hence this post both concludes Banishing Writer's Block and begins my new blog Don't Quote Me where I select a quote from someone other than me, whether notable or not, and reflect on what it could mean, both personally and more broadly.

Will ditching one blog and starting another get the creative juices flowing towards something more substantial? Who knows. Like spending a year in Tuscany or Paris or some idyllic Greek island to locate that quintessential writing environment, changing locations is simply a geographical move and brings no guarantees. So will it be any different this time around?

I guess we'll have to wait and see.

(Don't Quote Me should be up and running within the next week)

Summer Solstice

Had been hanging out for quite some time for the alignment of Jupiter and Saturn tonight, checking the evening sky as the planets gradually appeared closer and closer, but wouldn't you know it, the very day we needed clear skies, in rolled the heavy grey clouds as rain started to fall. Rather disappointing, as I won't be around for the next viewing. Paul McCartney might think Venus and Mars are alright tonight, but the two planets everyone was focussed on won't get much of a viewing in the south easterly regions of Oz.

Jupiter and Saturn

the Christmas Star hidden

behind thick grey cloud

I cannot wait

another four hundred years

Out of Our Hands

Oh well, the best laid plans of mice and men have now gone out the window. After roaming from one website to another getting the latest update on border restrictions due to the fresh outbreak of Covid-19 in Sydney, the evening news dealt the blow we thought was probably inevitable. Looking forward to our first family Christmas get-together in Tassie in 5 years, it is now off the agenda as my son and daughter-in-law and grand-dog have to stay where they are in Sydney and call off their travel plans.

They live in a medium risk area, but that automatically means they would have to hotel quarantine for 14 days on arrival at their own expense, which is longer than their original planned visit anyway. So, 2 sad mums, 1 sad dad, and a long line of brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, in-laws, cousins and other rellies, as well as friends who were all getting ready to catch up with them after not seeing them in a long time, will now have wait even longer. When it comes down to it, we'd much rather they stay put and stay safe.

We can't complain though. Other global hotspots are buckling under their own dire circumstances, so even if it means thousands of people's Christmas plans have now been turned on their head, we'll once more have to find creative ways of connecting at this time of year when we usually take family time for granted. 

If absence makes the heart grow finder, it must surely follow that the reunion will be that much sweeter when it finally comes.

Whispers in the Night

I woke up this morning a few minutes before 4am and wrote my epitaph. Why? I have no idea, other than the words were there the moment I opened my eyes, tumbling out of nowhere and hovering, simply waiting for me to rearrange them somewhat. I was certainly left wondering why such a thing would occur at this precise moment, but then the subconscious is not always forthcoming with clear explanations.

If my genes are anything to go by, I have another twenty years up my sleeve before I depart this world, so why choose the wee hours to interrupt my slumber with notions of my demise. No idea. None of us know what's around the corner, but I hope I have a bit more living to do before my final farewell.

Maybe it was a wake-up call to make more of my life with what I have left, to make this last season of my time on earth really matter. Matter more to me or more to others? I really don't know. Will I accept the challenge if that's what it is? Now there's a loaded question.

Maybe I simply woke from a dream and that is how my mind processed it, but it's now 4.30am and of course I can't get back to sleep, hence the frenzied scribbling to get the words out of my head. I shouldn't be doing this crazy sort of thing in the middle of the night, but there you have it, don't always have much control over my sleeping patterns and the brain is now ticking over at a great of knots.

Why can't I think of these things at a more convenient time? Probably because in those moments my hands are more occupied with some mundane task like washing up, so my brain is preoccupied elsewhere and not ready to be engaged with such thoughts. Sometimes it takes the still of night when all is quiet for our minds to process the events of the day and the challenges we can't sort out in our waking hours. Maybe when we're at rest we are more open to receive the words we're meant to hear.

Hmmm, will sleep come now?

Well, it's twelve hours later and I can attest to the fact that sleep did not eventuate. The clock interminably ticked over the half hours as I rolled from side to side, by which time no position was comfortable enough to allow me in to the Land of Nod. The early light of dawn intruded around the edges of the blind after more tossing and turning, and by 6am hunger started to set in, but I resisted, and I think it was probably at the moment I was going to give up and get up just before 7am that I finally nodded off for a couple of hours.

In the light of day it is often fascinating to recognise what your night time wanderings are about. Sometimes you wake up wondering 'what on earth was that about,' and I've had many a weird dream in that category, but seeing how your sleeping self helps you direct your waking self to cope in the real world can be an enlightening process.

So, I don't think I'm on the brink of dropping off this mortal coil in the immediate future, but just in case, here's a little something to read at my send-off or etch into my gravestone, not fussed either way.

Ashes to ashes 

dust to dust 

when it all comes down to it 

we all must 

cease activity 

return to earth 

finish off in death 

what we started in birth

Lost in Translation

Spent an interesting hour in the Bob Jane waiting room the other day while the car received a little attention. Happened to coincide with the last ten minutes of the US presidential debate, but what was even more amusing than the antics on the screen was the fact the TV had teletext for those with hearing difficulties. Coming a few seconds later than the audio, I was amused how minor errors kept cropping up. Not knowing the finer points of teletext and whether it is produced via some magical audio transcription method, or whether some poor person is actually furiously transcribing in real time and skipping and tripping over the keyboard to keep up, the end product has the potential to be quite misleading.

It all happened too quickly for me to take notes, but the telecast was followed by a press conference or some such with PM Scott Morrison in usual jovial up-beat form. The same teletext was flashing across the screen and I watched more closely this time as he referred to the lifting of borders to allow international rivals to enter the country. He'd actually said 'arrivals' but the written faux pas gave it a completely different meaning, and I wondered whether anyone relying on the teletext for accurate information would've been more than alarmed at that point.

And then there was the moment the PM acknowledged that his Deity Prime Minister had represented him at some function or other. Of course, it was the Deputy Prime Minister he had spoken about, but the teletext gave the leader of the National Party an elevated position way above his pay-grade plus a whole other quality I would've thought he certainly didn't have. All too soon the car was ready and I had to pull myself away from what had become more fascinating viewing than what I normally watch.

We all have moments when what comes out of our mouths isn't heard in the way it was intended. For some reason the distance between what is said and what is heard can be a very wide gap fraught with much danger and misinterpretation. Both our own life experiences as well as those of others we are attempting to communicate with, will colour the way we project our thoughts and ideas, and how they will be received. Even body language and the effect of what is not being said, perceived ulterior motives or manipulation or prejudices, can affect the simplest of conversations.

No matter how much we interact with each other every day, we still live our lives in our own little bubbles, seeing the world through our particular frame of reference, captives of our own paradigm. It takes skill and patience to develop the art of communication, to listen, to see beyond what we believe the world to be at this point in time, to acknowledge that the life experiences and opinions and beliefs of others are just as valid as our own. Never underestimate the worlds of others and their impact on the human soul simply because it's not the world in which you or I live.

They're simply different, that's all

Beginning the Ascent

Two hundred and twenty-five years ago British poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge embarked on the ascent of the left face of Brockley Coomb in Somerset, "a deep narrow glen...sunk between steep rocks...rising to 300ft...adorned with many noble trees, and all the fissures and ledges of the cliffs enriched with...mosses and other vegetation...and masses of columnar basalt." (National Gazetteer of Great Britain and Ireland, 1868).

He penned his appreciation of the venture in what was for him quite a short poem, for I find many of his offerings rather long-winded, and coming from me that's saying something. I've had to discipline myself over the years to cut out and slash and burn in my quest to state what is necessary rather than burden a piece of writing with excessive verbiage. Two years of writing haiku certainly helped, but already I'm getting off the track.

In heading towards retirement I have embarked on a purge of my belongings, determining as I go the destination of the contents of drawers which have remained unopened for a while, shelves which have long since run out of room for anything new, and cupboards of this and that which haven't seen the light of day for many a year. Things that once held sentimental value are becoming less so as I get older, whereas others are still handled with a degree of reverence and tucked back in their hidey holes to be dealt with at some later date. The process has begun. The task ahead might take a while and feel like a bit of a mountain, but tackling a little at a time seems the best way to go.

What on earth has this to do with Coleridge you say. Well, I manage an Op Shop, and my little book of Coleridge poems was just one item among others relocated from the house today. A very small addition to the rows of books on offer in the shop, I doubt anyone will discover it for quite a while, but you never know who might breeze in who's studying the English Romantic poets.

In the reading of Coleridge's Brockley Coomb I was struck by one image in particular. For him it was the ancient yew trees embedded in sheer rock, and for me the picture resonated with parts of the local bush I have photographed many times. Around here there's about one centimetre of topsoil, then rock, so plants and trees must make the most of what little nourishment they can find, often to rather dramatic effect.

Clinging to the edge of rocky banks, gnarled roots wind themselves around the obstacles beneath to seek out sustenance, grounding themselves, determined to remain despite the elements and the situation in which they find themselves. Our bush is a mixture of dry temperate eucalypt forest, ferns and lichen-covered rocks, cliffs dotted with fossils, and a meandering creek under the canopy providing its own micro-climate abounding in moss and fungi.

So, with apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge for my slight changes, I found this little nugget within his poem most appropriate.

From the deep fissures of the naked rock
the Gum tree bursts! Beneath its grey green boughs
...where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest.

Excerpt from Brockley Coomb
Subtitled Lines composed while climbing the left ascent of Brockley Coomb, May 1795

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Intruder Alert

 

Cannot believe a whole year has passed since making an entry in what was supposed to be my regular writing routine for when I couldn’t think of anything else to write. But there you go, and in a year when there has been plenty to write about, both inspiring and tragic, my pen ran dry. 

At the beginning of April I wrote a blog which is still sitting on the computer but failed to make it to the posting point. In the face of the unfolding tragedy of Covid-19, humour became one of the things to get us through. Crazy posts appeared on social media to make us laugh or give us ideas to amuse ourselves while in lockdown, so I took up the mantle and wrote a little missive using ‘coronavirus’ in multiple anagrammatical ways to weave a little tale. 

 As I looked at it though, it felt disrespectful to make light of a situation which even at that early stage was obviously escalating at an alarming rate right around the world, and I’ve written very little since. Nikki Gemmell’s Weekend Australian columns are a favourite of mine, and she’s included several thought provoking ones over the months on journeying through this foreign land of Covid. 

 Covid-19 turned up on our doorsteps uninvited, like an unwelcome visitor who in our ignorance we thought was staying for a few days but now refuses to leave despite our best efforts. We wash our hands of this intruder, literally. We distance ourselves from it in the hope it'll get the message, but it keeps lurking about, hiding in dark corners, ever ready to sneak in should we be off our guard. 

 All of this preamble was to tell of my new intruder who valiantly avoided every attempt yesterday to be captured, for his own good mind you, and is currently in hiding. It all started while chopping firewood, snow on the mountain, bracing chilly wind, you get the picture. As the splitter did its job on a big lump of wood, out popped three sun lizards who’d been having a nice little hibernation inside it somewhere. Well, they are pretty skinny and can fit in the tiniest crevices. I hadn’t hurt any of them, but they sat there, or rather lay there in stunned frozen silence as I apologized profusely. One had dropped its tail through the shock of it all, so I beat a hasty retreat to let them regain their composure and find another warm spot. 

 Fast forward a few hours, what should suddenly appear trekking across the lounge room floor but a sun lizard, ambling rather slowly, and I realized where he had come from. I never bring firewood into the house unless it’s going straight on the fire. Learnt my lesson yonks ago after bringing a Huntsman spider into the sanctuary of my home courtesy of a piece of firewood, but last night was pretty cold so I brought in an extra piece and laid it near the fire ready. On the woodpile it was the piece next to the one I split, so he was probably a cousin of those so rudely evicted from their cosy hideaway. 

 I’ve rescued plenty of sun lizards in my time that have wandered into the house or the office, figuring they’ll starve to death unless I get them outside again, but could I convince my lizard intruder of such fact? I could not. Even trying the teatowel trick so I didn’t have to actually handle him and scare him to death didn’t work, he simply wriggled his way to freedom each time. After several unsuccessful attempts, by which time he’d traversed back and forth in front of the fire and was suitably warmed up to make him nice and frisky instead of cold weather lazy, I gave up and went to bed. 

 Where he is now is anybody’s guess, and he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in staying still long enough for a photo opportunity, so there you have it. At least he’s not a scary intruder, but neither do I want him to be a dead one to be discovered as a wizened corpse in some dusty corner at a future date. So despite his unfounded fears I will continue on my rescue mission. The sun is pouring in so who knows, I might find him sunbaking in the dining room.