Written in Ochre

Gratuitous Gratitude

2012-01-30T08:08:00.000+11:00

I have wonderful friends, a supportive and loving family, a ridiculously happy marriage, and a stunning home. But I worry that sometimes I don't appreciated my good fortune for the wonderful things in my life.

When I was a young teenager I began to get a real understanding of the inequalities in the world. I had grown up with images of hardship, poverty & hunger like those from reports of famine in Ethiopia but there was a particular watershed moment for me when a television news program showed footage of orphaned children in an institution in Romania. Quite literally, the politics of the country had abandoned and was killing these children--Ceausescu's regime had refused to admit that there was HIV in the country and these kids were HIV positive. One image of an emancipated child has stayed with me all of my life. I decided then that it wasn't 'fair' that my life was so easy simply because of the family, socio-economic group and country that was mine through the happy accident of being born into it. I didn't earn it, it just was. I didn't think at the time to be grateful for what I have, instead I was indignant and angry at what other did not have.

Then a few years ago I was explaining a dilemma we had to a friend of mine. My partner and I had planned a trip overseas at the end of the year and we were very excited about it but the predicament was that my partner wasn't working. If he didn't find work, we would have serious trouble being able to afford the holiday but if he did find a long term position, he wouldn't be eligible for leave by the time the trip came up. The friend I was talking to (let's call him Greg) said,

"You'll be okay, you two always fall on your feet."

Greg's observation has stayed with me because it wasn't until then that I really looked at just how lucky I have been. Of course, my partner got a six month contract so that we had the funds for the holiday but none of the hassles of having to get time off for our trip.

It's dumb luck really but I'm grateful. And I made a conscious decision to firstly realise how fortunate I am and secondly to be more grateful for the really quite amazing life that I have.

Today I had further cause to review my thoughts on gratitude. On my way home, I pulled over for a hitch-hiker. The woman explained that she was trying to get to her son's place to see him but the buses were running so infrequently that she decided to see if anyone would stop. She asked if I could just drop her at the corner of her son's street a little way along the road so she could walk up to her son's house. I wasn't in a hurry and said I'd drop her right there. At this offer she started to cry.

It made me think again about how lucky I am and that perhaps we sometimes take kindnesses shown to us for granted. It was an offer I made in an offhand way, driving two minutes out of my way to make sure she wasn't trudging uphill in the heat of the afternoon and yet she cried. How little kindness must have been showed to this woman in her life that such an offer produced tears of gratitude? It's a reminder to be thankful but maybe it's a reminder to be kind as well. There's always something to grumble about but I want to remember to be grateful for the good stuff because there's plenty of that around too.

And then there's being thankful for silliness of 'The Gratitude Experiment' from The Huffington Post which is linked to the title of this post...

Smiling

2011-11-23T08:40:00.003+11:00

And around my neck could be a flaming Christmas wreath,

And I’d be smiling under, smiling underneath.

Ani DiFranco

In the past week I’ve become highly aware of things that make me involuntarily smile. Of course, there are the usual things like seeing someone you love; a child doing something cute; or something that tickles your sense of humour. And then there’s icecream and chocolate (Or does that come under “seeing someone you love”?) But other things too make me grin like a goon, often to myself.

I’ve become aware of these other things that make me smile—ones that don’t necessarily make a lot of sense if you think about the fact that we smile (and produce a myriad other facial expressions) primarily as a mode of communication.

While watering my vegetable and herb garden two days ago I noticed that I couldn’t help smiling whenever I turned to face a plot of dwarf sunflowers growing there. Unlike the other plants in the garden, some of which I’m very proud of, the sunflowers give me a feeling of pure joy which has very little to do with feelings of achievement in growing them because they weren’t exactly a challenge. The seed of these sunflowers were a gift from a friend who is now living interstate and whom I miss terribly so, if anything, they should have prompted a feeling of sorrow but the beauty and colour of the sunflowers overcame anything negative and made me smile to myself, hose in hand.

My involuntary smiling at the sunflowers made me more aware of what can produce these smiles and feelings of joy so last night as I was driving home from Melbourne and had come over the Dividing Range into some wetter air I saw a rainbow and it made me smile. The day before I had seen a hot air balloon and it too had made me smile.

SOURCE: http://www.portalegypt.com/en/hot-air-balloon/

These things are interesting things to smile at but I think it comes down to how I feel about them. I’ve never been ballooning and I’m not sure that I’m particularly keen to go (although if someone offered me a ride, I wouldn’t say no) but I like the ‘idea’ of hot air balloons—there’s a certain romance to them. And the rainbow? Well, that’s probably a hangover from childhood and the fascination I had with them then. It wasn’t silly stories about pots of gold that caught my imagination, I just liked the colours.

SOURCE: http://rainbow-whirl.blogspot.com/

So, in the interest of smiling more often, I’ve planted more sunflowers in and around my garden and I’m going to keep an eye out for hot air balloons and rainbows.

What makes you smile?

"Geek" is the new "Cool".

2011-11-10T22:15:00.000+11:00

When I was in school they hadn’t even invented “geek” yet, those who fitted the bill (and I did) were referred to as “nerds” (and I was). And it was most definitely an insult. I was the studious type who followed rules, used manners and didn’t swear so the best I could hope for was when Michelle Rippingale said of me, “Debra’s kind of a nerd but she’s okay.”

Michelle followed up this initial comment with the affirmation, “Besides, it’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch.” These words transfixed me because the idea of being mysterious far surpassed the reality of the fact that I was, indeed, up to nothing at all. It was the edgy kids, like Michelle, who were “cool.” A nerd could never hope for that kind of acceptance, it only happened in movies like Grease and Can’t Buy Me Love. Films that I devoured, as any nerd would, savouring for 90 minutes the fictional world where the whole high school ecosystem could be unraveled and somebody like me could get the guy and be gorgeous and/or sickeningly popular by the end of it.

Welcome, the internet, new information technology, Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, and the social structure of being a teenager doesn’t seem quite so hierarchical anymore. Of course, this perspective could be due to the dulling effect of viewing the system from the outside but the structure seems less rigid and the lower castes of “nerd” and “geek” have been somewhat elevated to “IT nerd” and “computer geek” were their sought after knowledge and skills imbues them with an importance and acceptance that nerds of my time could never have hoped for. But it’s not limited to IT either, this new perspective on nerds has established itself in mainstream television too. Take, for example, Matthew Gray Gubler’s character of Dr Spencer Reid in Criminal Minds or Jim Parsons as Sheldon Cooper from Big Bang Theory. In my nerdy days, all we had was the annoyance of Steve Urkel who was designed to make us all cringe. The interesting difference between the nerdy heroes of the like of Grease and Can’t Buy Me Love and the newer television manifestations, is that these modern-day nerds are also cool in their own right without having to change or pretend to be anything else.

When I went away to university, I broke away from the labels that had been assigned to me in high school. I shook off the dowdy cloak of nerd-dom and put on the cheesecloth and op-shop fashion of the broke environmental studies student. The luxury of going to university where I knew nobody and nobody knew me was that I could re-invent myself to my heart’s content. I was careful about it too—I tried to be honest with myself and others without being pigeonholed into a stereotype I wasn’t comfortable with. I was still pigeonholed, of course, but at least it was into a pigeonhole of (vaguely) my own choosing.

The luxury of age is that these days I don’t feel tied to or hampered by the labels, past or present, no matter how bad they may have seemed in my youth. I’m quite happy to be a nerd or a geek—although nobody could really accuse me of being an IT nerd, I did write the first draft of this post by hand, with a fountain pen. How old-school nerd is that?

Strawbs

2011-11-09T15:53:00.001+11:00

I wrote the story below while I was in Edinburgh last year and the post I was writing about my garden reminded me of it so I thought I would put it up.

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Strawbs

When Blue come back from the big smoke, ‘e was getting’ ‘round with a stick up ‘is arse. Mick said it was a pity it wasna sticka dynamite, we coulda really given ‘im a blast an’ it woulda served the snotty bastard right.

Blue ‘ad some big ideas these days, kept talkin’ ‘bout change. “Agricultural reform” ‘e called it as if ‘e gave it a big enough name, it’d make ‘im more important. That’s when ‘e decided we should all go organic. Mick misunderstood and got all huffy thinkin’ Blue had gone all queer and poofter on us,

“Wot-the-fuck did they do-ta-ya in th’ bloody city? Wotaya talkin’ ‘bout that kind of thing in the pub for? Me beer’ll bloody go flat, mate,” he tried ta laugh away ‘is shock.

“Nah, ya dozy bastard,” said Blue, “or-gan-ic, growin’ stuff without fertilisers and sprays. It’s big bucks in the city grocers.”

“Ah, sure,” Mick calmed down a bit, “but who’s gunna go ‘round and catch all the bloody locusts by hand? And howaya meanta grow anythin’ if you can’t spray for the little fuckers?”

But Blue ‘ad ‘is big plans and some’ow convinced ‘is old man ta let ‘im try a crop in the back block. Mick and me hadta laugh, we couldn’t help pitcha-in’ Blue out there in ‘is singlet and strides collectin’ up locusts to save ‘is precious patcha strawbs grown ‘orgasmically’ as Mick like ta say.

The things unseen.

2011-09-26T14:11:00.002+10:00

I read this post by Claire Askew, who I met when I was studying at a summer program in Edinburgh last year and she was writing in response to this post by Harry Giles, a writerly colleague of hers. I decided it was time to ‘fess up myself and ‘out’ my demons in the interest of a healthier, happier and more honest world.

Since, well forever really, I have suffered back pain which results from a malformation of the L5 vertebrae. This is something I don’t like to talk about and generally have dealt with quietly for my whole adult life (the scoliosis caused by the dodgy vertebrae was diagnosed when I was 16 years old). Towards the end of 2009, the pain started getting much worse and was beginning to impact on my life – by which I mean, I could no longer walk for the length of a block without pain, and a lot of it. This increase in pain coincided with my grandfather’s diagnosis with cancer and I found myself in a particularly bad place.

I had suffered from depression and anxiety before; had sought some counseling at the insistence of my fantastic partner; and had made some changes in my life. When I think about it now, I have possibly always been anxious, even as a child and particularly in relation to being thought ‘good’ or being liked by others. While I was depressed and suffering anxiety attacks, I didn’t sleep well and I lost interest in things I generally liked to do, like going out and seeing the people who are dear to me; and talking to friends and family on the phone. During the night I would regularly wake, short of breath and with my heart fluttering far too fast for what should be resting. I would sometimes wake up Nic and tell him I was scared, he initially asked, ‘Of what?’ but I generally couldn’t come up with an answer. But not having a thing to be afraid of didn’t make the fear any less.

So when the sleeplessness; inability to make decisions; dread of speaking on the phone; horror of being responsible for anything; and panic attacks started up this time, I knew I needed to do something about it. It took me just as long to find the courage to act, though, because we had moved and I was not yet completely comfortable with my new doctor. I also didn’t feel that I knew anybody well enough to ask for advice regarding medical professionals and mental illness.

My work was always tough, but coping with it became even tougher. Eventually I went to the doctor and to his introductory question of, ‘What brings you in today?’ I burst into tears. I knew there was something wrong but I felt really stupid and didn’t really want to admit that I wasn’t coping. The one thing I was clinging to was that I was shocked and upset by my grandfather’s illness and by the fact that he was going to die – but I felt stupid for this too. I recall trying to explain to the doctor that I felt that I was being ridiculous for being floored by the fact that Pa wasn’t immortal, I mean, what was I thinking? The man was ninety-two years old and it had never occurred to me before that he wasn’t going to be around forever.

Of course, it wasn’t just Pa, or just the daily back pain, or just stress from work but they all played a role and had an impact. This time, I spent much longer in counseling sessions and made some rather big changes, not so much to my life but to the way I think. I have acknowledged just how much time and energy I expend trying to make sure everyone likes me and thinks I’m a good person. And when I say everyone, I mean even people I don’t like. I’m trying to keep things like that in perspective these days and focus my energy on making sure that I think I’m a good person and that I like me (it’s not as easy as it might seem).

In keeping with the posts by Claire and Harry here are my lists of things that make me scared and anxious and things that make me feel safe:

Scared

being judged

confrontation (even if I’m not involved)

making decisions (in tough times, this can even include what to have for dinner)

thinking that I will lose people I love

submitting my writing

trying to make new friends

talking on the phone

running late

being unsure about a new situation eg turning up to a reading for the first time

being part of a reading

people who treat me as inferior (because I generally believe them)

Safe

Nic & being held by him

home

study (the noun & the verb)

making a new friend who I can talk to without effort

writing stories

reading

getting something finished

I think Harry and Clare have started something amazing with their honesty & I challenge others to speak up as well. Write your own post or comment on one of the others.

Speak Now

2011-09-18T10:10:00.002+10:00

I know, I know. It's been ages! I'm a terrible blogger and I don't deserve you. What if I buy you a pony* to make up for it?

In the meantime, I do have some exciting news. A little while ago I wrote a guest blog for Same Same about how disgusted I am that we are still having the debate about legally recognising same-sex marriage. They printed it then it caught the attention of Victor Marsh who is editing a collection of thoughts on Australian Marriage Equality. Victor asked to include my piece and it has made it through the publisher's cut & I'm in. For more info about the book, you can go to the blog which is also linked to the title of this post.

The Melbourne launch is on the 30th October at 2pm in Hares & Hyenas Bookshop, Johnson St, Fitzroy. I'd love to see you there.

Cheers,
Deb
*All ponies mentioned in this post are fictional.

The best coffee is fair trade

2011-02-07T19:27:00.003+11:00

A fair cup

Where does your morning ‘cuppa’ come from and is it socially responsible? Deb Wain explores the importance of fairtrade tea and coffee.

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It’s 6:38am on a Saturday morning. I’ve given up fighting my body clock on weekends; I need coffee. I cup my hands around the hot mug and gain more comfort there than from the newly lit fire. I look into the reddish-blackness of my coffee, inhale deeply of the earthy aromas and think about how I got to this point. My history as a coffee drinker has been a series of awakenings, and I don’t just mean the jolt it gives me in the morning.

The beginning ~ my discovery, Europe's discovery

When I discovered coffee as a way to stay awake and complete assignments during first year university, sobriety and alertness was my aim. Upon its introduction to Europe, at a time of scientific rationalism, coffee replaced the tradition of a small beer or wine at breakfast and created a sobering effect on the society as a result. It was noted in 1660 by an English observer that “This coffee drink hath caused great sobriety…” and that the men were now comparatively more capable in the workplace compared to when they took “…a morning draught of Ale, Beer or Wine, which, by the dizziness they cause in the Brain, made many unfit for business…” Likewise, coffee made me fit to string enough words together to pass first year. Thank you, coffee.

The 'good' stuff ~ Moving on from Instant

There is always an epiphany; love is sometimes responsible. I fell for a man of Dutch heritage who introduced me to “real coffee” rather than my previous version: the now much-maligned "instant muck". Every morning we would make plunger coffee with breakfast and, before too long, mine actually looked like a cup of coffee rather than the weak-cappuccino-dishwater I used to order when I was out. It took us until relatively recently to understand how our coffee drinking impacts worldwide. In 2005, we took a trip to Peru where we assumed we would easily find great coffee. That was not the case. When we asked local people about it we found out that Peruvians grow the coffee but don’t drink it. It is simply a cash crop.

The 'bad' stuff ~ Exploitation in the Coffee Trade

The coffee industry has a long history of exploitation and thanks to the tropical climate in which that exploitation occurs it is far enough from most of our breakfast tables, cafés and restaurants for us to successfully ignore it. When coffee took Europe by the jugular in the 1600s, reliance on supply by Arab nations became an issue. The Dutch were the first to break into the market by establishing plantations in the East Indies in the 1690s. Of course, this meant the usual colonial bad manners of displacement, land theft and slavery of local people.

Unfortunately, little has changed since then. Big coffee corporations such as Nestlé and Kraft have replaced the Dutch and French colonial governments but the local coffee farmers are still suffering unfair treatment, amoral trading agreements and, poor wages and conditions. That is, unless they are part of a fairtrade agreement.

The 'better' stuff ~ Fair Trade

Fairtrade is more than the ‘fair’ price for the product that the name suggests. The fairtrade set-up includes a premium that is paid to farmers so they can collectively establish social or economic development projects.

In rural East Timor, the Café Timor Cooperative identified access to affordable healthcare as a major issue facing their communities. They decided to apportion a substantial share of their fairtrade premium to establishing the Clinic Café Timor organisation in order to develop healthcare initiatives in the far-flung coffee growing regions of East Timor. Through this project, the Clinic Café Timor organisation has become the largest provider of healthcare in rural East Timor. Utilising ten fixed clinics and twenty-four mobile units, they bring healthcare services to 115,000 coffee farmers and their families; treating 18,000 cases a month. And all of it free to the patients.

Sometimes premiums go towards improving roads so that workers can drop off their coffee and have it picked up by truck rather than walking long distances carrying 20 kilogram bags of coffee beans on their backs. Other projects relate to education. Books, buildings and desks are provided to local schools to help improve the learning conditions for students in places such as rural PNG.

In addition to the premium, growers are paid a set minimum price per weight for their coffee beans. This helps to alleviate concern about fluctuating markets and encourages farmers to re-invest in their businesses. Willington Wamayeye, managing director of Gumutindo Coffee, PNG says that the higher price means that “…they can invest in their farms, they pay school fees for their children, they build better houses and they have a better living.” This is the stability so many of us, in the coffee-drinking Western world, take for granted.

What can we do?

Throughout its history, coffee has caused problems, threatened governments and created debate. The controversial new ideas of Newton’s Principia being sparked in one of London’s coffeehouses in the 1680s is one thing but do we need to have poor wages and miserable working conditions hanging over our morning ‘cuppa’? Even now, when we are thinking of ‘tightening belts’, ‘hip pocket nerves’ and the recent Global Economic Crisis, it doesn’t take much to be mindful of our privileged place in the global village and make a some careful choices.

So, now I look for the Fairtrade logo on my tea and coffee because thanks to the dedicated letter and email writing of Oxfam’s Supermarket Campaign, the major supermarket chains in Australia now stock these fairtrade products. (Next on the campaign list should be fairtrade chocolate, because it's almost impossible to find outside of specialty shops.)

I try to keep my hands cupped around a guilt-free blend. When you’re out, think about asking if the coffee is fairtrade. If you want to be sure, Hudson’s coffee chain has a fairtrade option but you need to request it when you order. BP’s Wild Bean Cafés have recently changed over to using 100 percent fairtrade coffee. If we all keep the pressure on and share the importance of fairtrade with our coffee-drinking friends, we will all be on fairer footing.

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Bibliography

Fairtrade Association of Australia and New Zealand, http://www.fairtrade.com.au/Producersandimpacts?PHPSESSID=bf7f7a36e89fb3de409ce2243118c024, accessed on 30/4/09

McNamee, G., Moveable Feasts: the history, science and lore of food, Praeger, Westport, USA, 2007

Oxfam Australia, http://www.oxfam.org.au/campaigns/fair-trade/coffee/, accessed on 30/4/09

Pendergrast, M., Uncommon Grounds: a history of coffee and how it changed our world, Basic Books, New York, 1999

Standage, T., A history of the world in six glasses, Walker & Co, New York, 2005

Another blog altogether?

2011-01-27T10:39:00.002+11:00

I've been thinking about ways of tracking my year 'off' and was contemplating starting a whole new blog which, in my caffeine-fueled enthusiasm, I had decided to call, "The Year of Living Aimlessly"... Did you see what I did there? In a moment of clarity, I thought to google my chosen title, just to check, maybe there are other brilliant people out there who are as witty and aimless as myself. And lucky I did too.

My google search delivered unto me a novel of that title by Steve Myhill. The tagline of said publication is "The life and loves of a he-devil" which doesn't really sound like my kind of thing. The same author has also written a book called Men are from Wagga and Women Wish They Weren't so it seems he has a sense of humour but I'm not sure if it should be read that the women in question wish they weren't from Wagga or the women wish the men weren't from Wagga. Regardless, I was now less-than-impressed that my spiffy title was taken.

On further inspection of the google search results I discovered a blog post also using this phrase as its title. The blogger in question seems to be using a picture of a light bulb sticking out of a bum as his profile picture. Is that a metaphor?

This is not the first time I have been shocked to find that somebody has beaten me to the punch. A few years ago I entertained the idea of a cafe/secondhand bookshop and I thought I was the embodiment of brilliance when I decided that I could call my shop where people would thumb through a book while eating cake and drinking coffee "Bookuccino." Isn't that witty? Aren't I amazing? Hmm, but apparently so was somebody else and they were a bit more snappy about it than I was ever likely to be. Cafe Bookacino in Church St, Whittlesea. *sigh* Maybe I'm just not cut out for the cutting edge...

So, without a catchy title for my intended 12 month long blog, I have returned to Written in Ochre and decided instead that this blog must be all things to all people (unless, of course, you're interested in the progress of the strawbale house we're building and if so you can go there or if you want to see me as a wedding celebrant rather than aimless writer of blog content and on-leave teacher.)

2011

2011-01-10T08:09:00.002+11:00

I'm taking a bit of a leap and have decided to try to take this writing game a little more seriously than I have in the past. 2011 will be a year of words. And I've gone with a new background for the new year.

This year I'll be focusing on being a marriage celebrant and writing, I've taken twelve months leave from teaching so that I'll have the time to actually focus on something other than school. Ridiculously, I already miss the students but I won't miss the correction and reporting.

Being a teacher (in the past), I've decided I probably need a timetable or I may end up frittering away all my time shopping on anthropologie.com or chatting to other time-wastey people on facebook. My list for daily inclusions is:

coffee (not sure it needs to go into the timetable since nothing happens until coffee does anyway but I'll slot it in, that way I can tick something off my things to do everyday even if it all goes pear-shaped from there)
shower (again, it's about ticking off things - I promise I would have a shower even if it wasn't on the timetable)
reading time
writing time
editing time
celebrancy time
household jobs
jobs at Lady's Pass (when the house is done this will include becoming a painter since we are doing all the internal painting)
lunch and coffee breaks

Now all I need is somebody responsible enough to sort out the timing of these things so I don't end up with 90% of the day dedicated to drinking coffee and eating lunch... help!

Invasion of Collins by Poets and their army of family and friends!

2010-12-14T19:46:00.000+11:00

Unsuspecting shoppers seeking bookish presents for Christmas in Collins Books last Sunday were faced with a plunder of poets (Do you like that collective noun? I just made it up.) who were there to celebrate the launch of Land Lines, a regional poet's anthology published by the Melbourne Poets Union.

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We read poems, nibbled sandwiches and toasted with some soft bubbles after Lorraine Marwood declared the publication launched.

The link above goes to a site that has some pictures of the poets and other people involved as well as another rundown of the event.

I had a lovely afternoon. I conquered my nerves and read 'Money for Jam' - people laughed in the right places so I was happy. I had a loyal little band of supporters who made the journey. Special mention must go to Karin who came to see me read in Edinburgh and now in Bendigo (I have an international groupie!)

Must get writing and submitting some more now that the school year has finally released me from it's pythonic hold.

Cheers, all the best of the season (whichever one you might be celebrating).

Regional Poets Anthology

2010-11-23T16:01:00.002+11:00

A little while ago (OK, it was actually the 7th of Jan last year) I let you all know that I had some poetry accepted for publication in a regional poets anthology.... well, it's almost here. No, I really mean it.

The anthology is called Land Lines and will be launched 12th Dec at 1pm, Collins Bookshop in Bendigo.

Come along, bring a friend. I've been brave and agreed to read so you can all look forward to another photo of me being mortified in a future post!

Cheers!

Facebook should have a stupidity filter

2010-09-30T10:03:00.004+10:00

For a while I have been wishing that facebook had a grammar and spelling filter so that posts could only be uploaded if they were grammatically correct and not misspelled. At one stage, I took to correcting posts that used "your" instead of "you're" and the wrong they're/there/their and signing my comments; "the friendly grammar police". This tactic elicited some confused responses such as, "Thanks?"

Well, you're welcome. (Please note that's not "your welcome" which is actually another thing entirely.)

In the end, though, it became too hard and I've had to just shut my eyes and take a deep breath when I see appalling spelling and grammar on facebook.

But now I have a new complaint -- blatant stupidity, like this post:
FOLLOW THESE STEPS
1.COVER YOUR MOUTH WITH YOUR HAND
2.WHISPER A WISH INTO YOUR HAND
3.POST THIS ONTO TEN OTHER COMMENTS
4.NOW LOOK AT YOUR HAND

I had to really restrain myself from replying to that with all manner of sarcastic and aggressive comments that instantly popped into my head upon reading it. In fact, I started to reply and then I realised just what I was getting myself into. If I couldn't keep up with correcting the spelling and grammar, how would I ever keep up with commenting on the stupidity? And if people really are that stupid, are they going to be able to even remotely appreciate my witty and cutting comments about what their hand must look like after a wish has been whispered into it?

I think not.

Let it go, Deb, just let it go...

Carnage in the Kitchen

2010-09-20T16:08:00.004+10:00

It seems that the advent of less-than-bitter-winter weather has inspired monster flies to grace us with their graceless presence.

In a foolhardy fit of passion for beamy sunshine, I opened the back door to the kitchen while I prepared dinner (to go in the slowcooker because I’m such a Betty-Crocker-type when I’m at home on school holidays).

Unfortunately, said mutant blowflies decided that was an open invitation to come in and buzz mercilessly around the house and crawl their fetid feet all over the pile of dishes that is still sitting on the bench… and sink… and most other flat surfaces. (OK, so I'm not THAT Betty-Crocker-ish).

I don’t even know how the black swarm got through the door so quickly. By the time I figured out that the kitchen was being insect-invaded and shut the back door, there was a fly-haze to the air and the buzzing was so loud that I thought they had called in helicopter re-enforcements.

Having finished in the kitchen I thought I’d try the ignore-them-and-they’ll-go-away strategy. It’s a technique that I have attempted to employ in the classroom but so far to no avail and in this instance, the flies seem to have taken persistence lessons from my students. Eventually, one of them found their way into the lounge room where I was diligently trying to ignore them by checking what everyone was doing on facebook (not just my friends, that wouldn’t have taken very long, EVERYONE – never let it be said that I shy away from the big jobs).

Fly-buzz was so distracting that I decided it was time for action. Where was the can of flyspray? We don’t have any because it's bad for the environment.

Well, what about a flyswat then? Nope, I never actually got around to buying one. I thought about sacrificing the dishcloth but it didn’t have the necessary flick-and-kill quality I was looking for. A quick rummage in the recycled paper unearthed an old sturdy envelope, which I felt would be a suitable understudy for a flyswat.

Makeshift flyswat in hand, I unleashed my fury around the kitchen – I actually remembered to put the lid onto the pot of dinner to avoid it filling up with fly carcasses. Even when I thought I had disposed of all of them, there would be a lull followed by another buzzing and then I had to hunt down where the next one was….. and then the next one….

Finally once the buzzing had ceased and an eerie quiet had again settle in the kitchen, I returned to the lounge room, exhausted but I felt I had been victorious. I had entered the black mass and had conquered the swarming plague. I am the champion!

What’s that buzzing?!

Right!

I’m going to buy a can of flyspray!

PS. This post is a nod to Allie at http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/ Not that I could ever be as funny, amazing and witty as Allie but her work did make me think that this one would be more entertaining with 'drawings'.

Images of Edinburgh

2010-08-06T03:00:00.001+10:00

Today I completed the confronting task of discussing my poetry in my one-to-one tutorial time. It was confronting not because of whom I had to talk, but because I had to talk about it at all. But, like so many things that scare us and are difficult, such as going to the dentist or learning to ride a bike, it was all worth it in the end (okay, you're right, going to the dentist is never worth it).

Beforehand I had an image of my tutor throwing my pages across the table at me and exclaiming that it was all rubbish and what did I think I was doing. Or in an alternative but equally daunting scenario sitting politely and nodding with a stiff smile plastered on her face as I desperately tried to say something intellegent and make her like me (which is what it's all about, of course, it's what everything is about).

There were many other nightmares playing out in my mind (which I won't bore you with just yet) but most of them ended with me curled into a ball sobbing quietly and retaining a persistent phobia of writing, reading and even of pens - those orchestrators of my downfall!

Of course, nothing like it eventuated and I had a lovely, productive discussion with my wonderfully supportive tutor who didn't once throw anything or nod politley.

I have two more tutorials before the end of the course, so she still has time...

Writing in Edinburgh

2010-08-05T06:52:00.001+10:00

Today our course started with a seminar and library tour. We read beginnings and wrote beginnings as would be appropriate for the beginning of anything.

I handed some work to my tutor so she could read it in preparation for my one-to-one tutorial session tomorrow afternoon. I decided to go with poetry and I was flattered (prematurely because she hadn't actually read it yet) when she asked if I was working towards a collection or anthology of my poems.

I must look like a writer or sound like a writer (although that could be down to my non-fashion, hippy tendencies and the fact that I'm a bullshit artist for a living). On the theme of beginnings, I might even be beginning to think that I'm a writer and that could be a daunting thought. I wonder how it's going to end?

Counting down to Edinburgh

2010-07-07T13:09:00.001+10:00

At the start of August I'll be heading to the UK to take part in the Scottish Universities' International Summer School. I'm going to give the Creative Writing Course a red hot go.

I'm both nervous and excited by this opportunity. I think I'm feeling a little intimidated by it all and I'm not sure that I'm up to it. I tend to do this to myself - dash out onto the limb and then realise how far down it is, get scared, vow not to look down again, look down anyway, have a mild panic attack while I imagine myself splattered all over the ground below, then become frozen in place like those cliched cats that have to be rescued by the fire brigade (don't the fire brigade have anything better to do?) In this case, the 'frozen in place' part will actually ferry me swiftly and surely to Scotland since all the arrangements have been made and I'm now too scared witless to do anything about it. I'll be dragged along by a tide of my own making.

I hope they don't mind a metaphor, a simile or two in this course, I think I've got that under control.

Time

2010-06-19T11:00:00.001+10:00

At the moment it seems that my time is like some kind of shifting sand monster and just when I think I have managed to grab hold of some, it slithers away and I'm left with nothing. The monster stalks me when it thinks I'm not paying attention and leaps in to eat up things I wanted to be doing.

All of that is just a waffly way of saying I have no time left for the things I really want to be doing and that I enjoy - like reading and writing. Instead my time is being devoured by work, tedium and busyness. I keep trying to squeeze time with my family and friends into my schedule but it is always rushed, there's more work or somewhere else I need to get to lurking close by.

I worry about time. I try not to wish it away but find myself doing so anyway. I worry that I will look back and wonder what I did with my life and regret that the time I spent on work and the value I place on the piles of correction and online reporting do not correspond.

Right now, I'm stealing a little bit of time to myself to write this. It's the break I have rewarded myself with after completing two of the four stacks of correction sitting on my lounge room floor. It's only a small amount of time that I can afford. For example, I couldn't afford to go out to our house site with Nic as he is planning on spending a couple of hours out there and I still have those other two stacks to get through.

Time interests me. I think we don't value it when we have it - usually as young people. And like any good supply and demand model of economics, it only becomes more valuable when we realise just how little we have.

underneath

2010-03-18T15:17:00.005+11:00

underneath the mystery of half-truths

and meaningful eyes across

a mingling room of bodies

dewy with new encounters

of the close kind

kindling urges, stroking egos

ids left to drown in

an over stimulated soup of response

short-sighted, I needed you

up close and personable but

all you could afford

were your smoke and mirror balls

but underneath your tricks

and breadcrumbs dropped

for me to follow

your serial murdering clues

for me to sleuth

and your fruitless baying at the moon

who never returned your call

was only fear

after all

Click here to read Thuy's Review

2010-02-25T09:20:00.002+11:00

Here's a review of Verandah 24 which featured my short story. It's a sort of backhanded compliment in a way but I'll take what I can get! :)

Three Poems Accepted

2010-01-07T14:24:00.002+11:00

My latest news is that I've had three poems accepted for inclusion in a Regional Poets' Anthology Chapbook. Two of them have featured here; 'Little Pig' and 'After Wandong', the third is below.

Cheers,

Deb

Money for jam…

Like money for jam –

a stupid saying really

because I’ve made jam

and it’s not that easy

First there’s all that

chopping of fruit

into tedious pieces

then accurate weighing

and measuring

(never my forte)

matching fruit with sugar

and doesn’t that look like an awful lot

of sugar?

surely a bit less would be healthier

Then stirring-waiting stirring-waiting

for the right consistency

– the one that matches the vague

description in the recipe –

which can be difficult

if you don’t have a natural tendency for patience

and you think it looks right

(good enough anyway)

but when it cools in the jars

– the ones you nearly scolded

the flesh off your hands trying to sterilise –

what you’re left with is fruity slop

which calls for some creative marketing

You transfer the sludge

into bottles

relabel it “Real Fruit Topping –

great on ice cream,

made with real fruit”

and give it to friends for Christmas,

they smile and say, “Thank you”

but they know it’s really

your failed attempt

at money for jam

Backyard Cricket

2009-12-07T20:49:00.004+11:00

A glorious hook shot
Over his left shoulder,
A nod to his batting partner
They take off like sprinters from starting blocks
Runs on the scoreboard
Knowing nobody is fielding
On Risnich's front lawn.

I stand at the crease
Frozen
Watching the shiny new cricket ball
Leave my hand
Bounce once
And the hit.
The arc of the ball's flight
As it takes to the air
Over the letter box, front garden, lawn.
I could see before it happened
The disaster
Of broken glass.

moongirl

2009-11-05T12:45:00.002+11:00

there’s a girl in the moon
she lives there, she likes it
it’s quiet and she can see
for miles and miles
all the way to the stars and back

and the Earth looks like a ball
that she’d like to play with
if only she could reach
but she can’t so she contents herself
with wielding power over tides
and menstrual cycles

the girl in the moon
isn’t lonely or sad
and she likes her own company
and she wants you to leave her be
she likes it if you gaze
at her pretty complexion
but she doesn’t care if you don’t

and the Earth looks like
it could just fall out of space
and she’d not be bothered
by telescopes or lunar modules
by pimple-faced boys staring up
up, up, up at her in a cloak of black

she isn’t embarrassed
when they tell her their secrets
or whisper an Earth girl’s name
with such longing that would
break any promise

there’s a girl in the moon
she lives there, she likes it

In the hospital

2009-11-02T22:08:00.003+11:00

In the hospital you said,

“We used to have fun,

you and I,

when you were little.”

you held my hand tightly

and I couldn’t feel

my fingers

You said,

“You were a terror

knocking down

the houses

I’d built of cards.”

I leant forward

in the uncomfortable chair

left for uncomfortable visitors

smiled

and laughed too loudly

agreed

I talked about the kite

we made

together

that wouldn’t fly properly

until it’s frame broke

in a spectacular crash landing

you did a hasty repair

and finally

it flew

You held my hand and said,

“Anyway, ninety-one’s pretty good,”

and I laughed as if you were joking

kissed your cheek

and left

as if nothing was wrong

Somewhere a house

of cards

fell down

**************************************

Background:

Recently my Pa wasn't very well and the conversation we had before his operation to remove a bowel obstruction frightened me so I needed to write about it. The ending is about my fear, not Pa's demise & in fact, he's doing very well.

Act 3, Scene I

2009-10-28T12:16:00.002+11:00

At high tide the curtain falls
rocks disappear
the coast is smoothed out, ready
Beneath the water, behind the scenes
a second sky
the sea lettuce
sways and fish dart in preparation
anemones are all tentacles
reaching, groping
keeping time to the
beat beat backbeat beat backbeat
of the waves – a rehearsal of repetition

Rock pools reappear
as the tide rolls back
a blue theatrical curtain
reveals the next act
the sea lettuce lays limp
flaccid on the rocks, slick underfoot
– victim of a tragedy at the end
of the previous scene
jelly domes stand in
understudy of anemones
children squeal
amongst the weed-slippery pools
– an animated audience –
to find the coral red seastar
sucker-foot walking
amid the shells,
centre stage is now hers.

splashing

2009-09-04T10:51:00.001+10:00

Hi Everyone,

Here is a poem I'm thinking of submitting to a new Literary Journal called Esprit de Corps.
Cheers,
Deb

Splashing

ocean calling backward and forward
indecision; the curse of not knowing
sand sticks to wet feet
splashed in shallows and shells

indecision, accursed not-knowing
dash of vodka and tonic
splashing shallows and shells
seastars cling under cocktail umbrellas

splash of vodka and tonic
slice of lemon for garnish
seastars take cover under cocktail umbrellas
neck to knee in hysterical giggles

slice of lemon for garnish
- a fishy nightmare soon forgotten
neck to knee splashing in giggles
wash of the tide drags you away

murky nightmare soon forgotten
of ocean calling backward and forward
as the wash of the tide drifts me away
and sand clings to wet feet

Verandah launch

2009-08-25T12:02:00.001+10:00

I am now the proud owner of my very own copy of Verandah 24 containing my story, "morning stranger", which won the editors' choice award! Reading part of my story to the assembled crowd at the launch was quite nerve-racking but gee, it was wonderful when it was over. I'd had all day at various other Melbourne Writers' Festival events in which to work up some fabulous nervousness! The launch of Verandah was a MWF free event. Thank you to everyone who came to lend their support - I sure needed it! :)

Here is a picture of me being terrified:

If you'd like a copy of Verandah 24, you can order them through the website at http://www.deakin.edu.au/arts-ed/verandah-res/index.html

Cheers,

Deb

Short Story accepted by Verandah

2009-07-20T18:24:00.001+10:00

Hi,

I received an exciting email last week telling me that Verandah 24 has accepted a short story of mine for publication! I'm very thrilled and promise to report back about the launch. I can't wait :)

Here is another poem for you.
Cheers,
Deb :)

Thirty-something limbo

When I’m old
I’ll go walking
like I did
as a child,
if I can still get up
if my knees don’t creak
if my back doesn’t ache.

When I’m old
I’ll have the time
to read the books
I should have read
in my youth
and I’ll regret
the lost opportunity
at wisdom.

When I’m old
I’ll get rid of knickknacks
and surround myself
with photographs.
I’ll never watch television,
I’ll see arthouse films.
I’ll remember to breathe
and appreciate
and laugh.
I’ll have long philosophical discussions
with dear old friends,
over tea on the porch.
I’ll wake up early
just to hear birds sing.

And I’ll lament my missing youth
and wish
I was too busy again
for walks and books,
talks and friends.

she

2009-05-21T20:46:00.002+10:00

Hi everyone,

Hope you're all well. Here's a poem I've been working on for a while. I keep putting it away, bringing it back out, changing things & putting it away again. One day it might be 'finished' whatever that means...

Cheers,

Deb

she

Who is she

depressing and ordinary?

She’s not me,

I’m unique and contrary

I never say die.

Not like her,

defeat in her eyes.

Resignation,

acceptance.

Not me,

I’m still fighting

raging at injustice.

Fierce

teeth bared,

a snarl, not demure smiles.

No batting eyelids,

no sideways glance,

coy looks, romance,

heart aflutter.

Leave me

to my guttural cries.

Realise.

A Poetic Achievement

2009-05-02T17:50:00.002+10:00

I recently entered a poem that has featured here in a competition run by DeScribe a Deakin University Writers' Group. The competition was organised in conjunction with Verandah, Deakin's literary journal, and was judged by the Verandah editors and "Little Pig" came in Runner Up.

I have never won anything with my poetry before so this is a very exciting moment for me!

Cheers,

Deb

Dark places and shadows

2009-04-18T16:20:00.001+10:00

Here's a poem from a while ago. It's one of those ones that when I read it now it makes me think, "Gee, who wrote that? Couldn't be me, makes my skin crawl a bit." I'm not really sure where it came from, one of those dark places we all have I suppose...

On a pleasant note, I have my first 'follower'! (Sounds rather cult-ish doesn't it?) How exciting. Hello, Mara, thanks for joining. :)

Cheers,

Deb

corner shadows

cowering in the corner

of our winter’s discontent

lime legs spider-crawl

creating elongated silhouettes

flies stick in honey and eyes

nose

mouth

open hunger creeping in the shadows

elusive sleep shivers

a death rattle, maybe

later buried in a pine box

scratching at the corners

fingernails

splinters

tips numb, rubbed raw in a frenzied effort

a dash for freedom

dashed hopes and resignation

crumpled

in the corner

Nikaura Nakamal & Kava

2009-04-08T12:54:00.001+10:00

Nikaura

The low thunk – thunk – thunk is reassuring. It means the kava I have been invited to share at the nakamal tonight is being pounded rather than prepared in the more stomach-churning traditional method.

The nakamal in the village of Nikaura, Epi Island, Vanuatu, is a nakamal in the original sense. Unlike the “nakamals” in Port Vila, the country’s capital, which are no more than kava bars, Nikaura’s acts as a public hall, an overflow church, the village court and an education centre. It is also somewhere for the men to meet, when the sun dips behind the volcanic hills that flank the village, and drink kava.

The men sit around the wide opening to the building, or in the open window frames either side of the central doorway. The walls are constructed of rough, upright tree

fern logs built around a frame that will stand the test of time, space, any dimension you want to throw at it. And I wonder where the crane came from to lift the roof beams into place.

“No, mifala liftem evriwan*,” replies my guide, Joshua, “We sing them, we sing the wood to make it light.” [* No, we lifted all of it.]

The women weave the thatch for the expansive roof but otherwise are not involved in nakamal-building. There are some clear distinctions between men’s and women’s business in Vanuatu, the strictness of which depends on where you are. In Nikaura, women do not generally drink kava. Being a white woman I am not only exempt; I am also a special guest and therefore expected to participate when invited.

The thunk – thunk – thunk continues in the dusk, as the mosquitoes begin biting and the changing tide turns up the volume of the waves. The squeals of children playing in the shallows and running barefoot on the coral beach carries up into the cooler darkness of the nakamal. The men talk quietly; in Bislama to me, in local language to each other. They have spread out a pandanus mat for me to sit on and I have respectfully chosen to wear a garishly coloured island dress.

I am thankful for the sound of pounding kava because the traditional method is to have young boys chew and spit out the root of the plant used to make the narcotic drink before it is soaked in water and strained through a cloth. It is the muddy-looking solution that is drunk as kava. It tastes similar to how it looks, although the visual image cannot prepare you for the bitterness, or how it might catch in the back of your throat, or how your gag reflex may respond to such a foreign encounter. All of these reactions are heightened if you know it has been in someone else’s mouth already.

Of course, you take the good with the bad. Kava is a relaxant and you may find it gives you the opportunity to recline on a pandanus mat, contemplate some amazingly large nakamal roof beams and wonder,

“Just where did they get the crane?”

Little pig, little pig...

2009-03-20T14:51:00.001+11:00

Here's another of the poems I was working on earlier on the year. I presented it at the reading I was part of and I've since sent it off to a journal... I'm still waiting to hear. I thought I would share it here in the meantime.

Cheers,
Deb
________

Little Pig, Little Pig...

There was a fourth little pig
a ‘black sheep’ the others don’t like to talk about
didn’t buy a bundle of twigs
or even straw
certainly wasn’t into conventional bricks and mortar.

Instead he wove around himself
walls of words
in the fashion of a wordy igloo.
Transparent passages formed windows,
dark thoughts became heavy drapes to cover them
and keep out peering Curiosity.

And far from being blown away by the ravenous Wolf
the little pig lived safely cocooned
in stories,
keeping the world at bay.
All potential intruders began reading
and before they knew it they were searching
to find out how it ends.

Looping calligraphy papered the walls
of his imagination-warm living room
and the fourth little pig reclined
hidden
behind bewitching literature,
writing poems in the air
to keep the Wolf out.

Fires - Saturday 7th Feb, 09

2009-02-18T11:00:00.001+11:00

I don't want to write very much about the fires, there are already so many stories out there much more important than mine. My role was a very small one; as a member of the Mt Camel Brigade of the CFA, I joined a stike team to patrol the town of Wandong on Sunday night. It was already dark when we arrived and it was difficult to understand how much damage had been done. I wrote the following poem as we left the town via the Hume Hwy just before dawn.

Wandong early Monday 9/2/09

The predawn light
makes the white gum trunks
stand starkly from the dark
silhouette of leaves
and ground

Amongst them there are
houses
with only a slight
shift in their shape
no lights in the windows

The predawn tells
a kinder story than
the one we are going
to hear
because when dawn
breaks
the blackness remains
and the shapes don't
shift back

Not the usual NYE

2009-01-06T08:39:00.001+11:00

My New Year’s Resolution: There are peaceful, harmonious people in the world and I am going to try to be one of them.

This New Year’s Eve found me with a group that expanded and contracted like a breath. We were camped on the banks of the Yarra River at Longridge – at its smallest, the group was eleven, at its largest, twenty-five. People came and went in dusty bare feet, spending the time that they could, sometimes going to work from the camp and returning in the evening. And there was an endless trickle of new arrivals embraced and held while the children ran off together despite age differences. For the most part, these people were new to me. Two of them were old friends, they had introduced me, invited me here to join the group, they said I would fit in, that I would love it; but there had been subtle warnings about the ‘alternative’ nature of some of the people I was likely to encounter.

I have trouble with the term ‘alternative’. When applied to music in a music store rack, it suggests a level of uncertainty about where the particular artist should go, or else it seems to be a bit of a cop out. Either way I don’t like the implied lack of effort – music shouldn’t be so passionlessly pigeonholed. When applied to people or communities, it’s a bit strident, as if the need to label the community ‘alternative’ takes something away from the community in question.

“What will they expect of me?” The question harassed me as I packed my new nylon tent and wondered if perhaps it wasn’t suitable, maybe they’d all be in biodegradable tipis, or building bark humpies, or in simple swags. The eskies brimming with crushed ice and the perishable food went into the boot next. Would the others have eskies? Maybe they’d make Coolgardie safes or nestle the vegies into a cool spot in the river. Even the car boot that I was packing came into question – rather conventional, wasn’t it, a sedan? They probably all drove comby vans or mini mokes with the tops down no matter what the weather was like.

When I nestled my car between a comby van and another sedately white sedan in the carpark of the Longridge Campground, and looked out into the camp to see a mixture of swags, old canvas continental tents, tarpaulins strung between trees and new nylon domes the nervousness that I had wound like a tight coil in my neck without even knowing it released like a spring.

I was introduced and welcomed as if I had always been there.

This New Year’s Eve, instead of drinking too much chardonnay, I wowed the gathered crowd with my limited skills in fire twirling because I thought they would appreciate them, despite the stumbles and faults. This New Year’s Eve, instead of everyone ‘bringing their own’, they all brought something, put it together and cooked and ate communally; modifying old favourite recipes to cope with the dietary requirements and tastes of the group without a murmur. This New Year’s Eve, instead of music at an obnoxious volume and illegal fire-crackers, there was spontaneous singing, chants and humming and sparklers for the young and young at heart.

This New Year’s Eve, instead of making rash resolutions whilst under the influence of the afore-mentioned chardonnay, or regretful lamentations the next morning about “never drinking again”; this year it was a process. While sitting around the campfire, drinks in hand, somebody suggested the group might like to do something about making New Year’s resolutions; did everybody want to talk about the idea? An older woman with short red hair that stood out at irregular angles said she had been at a workshop before where they imbued their drinks with a thought or a resolution they wanted to make and drank it down so it became a part of them. The group generally liked this idea but some didn’t want to speak their idea or resolution aloud, so instead just focused on it and channelled the idea into their drink. Waiting, slightly open-mouthed for the opportunity and the courage, I held my thought in my mind for a couple of sips as I toasted the wishes and dreams of others around the fire. Then I breathed, “I want to take every opportunity to find joy and laughter in 2009.” Everyone raised their glasses and drank. “Cheers! I’ll drink to that!” And a peaceful smile has been playing at my lips ever since.

Season's bleetings

2008-12-23T18:07:00.001+11:00

This time of year always brings out a little bit of the bah-humbug in me. Don't get me wrong, I love the catching up with friends, good food and good cheer but is it necessary that we do this to amongst whiny, tinny-voiced Christmas carols?

Not being an advocate of Christian festivals, I appreciate that maybe I'm being a bit biased but they're everywhere and they're HORRIBLE. Either 'canned-laughter' cheery or morose and I can't decide which is worse.

With that little rant off my chest, I should add that I've had a lovely 'season' so far. Friends and family joined us at our block for a Summer Solstice barbeque, we exchanged presents with family yesterday and Christmas day will be spent with my sister-in-law's family, after which I will really need to join the gym and watch my kilojoules! I'm also planning on a little pre-New Year's resolution because I have to submit some poems to the literary mag, Going Down Swinging before the end of the year. Deep breath, here goes nothing!

Season's greetings to everyone, whatever season you're celebrating!
Cheers,
Deb

Poetry under the Grandstand

2008-11-29T15:20:00.001+11:00

Arriving at the Queen Elizabeth Oval, I parked a distance away (I didn't know any better) but it gave me time to breathe and quell my churning stomach before walking into the club rooms. The flurry of report writing I had found myself in over the past two weeks hadn't allowed me to think too much about the poetry reading and get myself in knots over it but once I got to the venue, the reality of it hit me. I was about to read my poetry in front of an audience, and an audience that included the likes of alicia sometimes, Nathan Curnow and Sean M Whelan! Not to mention the local poets with whom I would be reading whose accompishments also intimidated me, and those who were there as audience members whose accomplishments etc etc. What was I thinking? What was Tru thinking asking me to be involved? What was Nic thinking encouraging me to say yes? Neither of them put much thought into how out of my depth and drowning I would be!

Tru started the show with thank yous and a general overview of the program for the evening. And my stomach turned itself into a pretzel-shaped knot of anxiety. Tru introduced the first poet and my heart began to thud so loudly I thought it might put the poor woman off her reading. I don't think I heard her first couple of words and all that blood rushing around in my head was about to ruin my evening so I had a quick but very stern talking to my self-esteem and told it to get over itself. From then on the night ran smoothly. When Tru called upon me to read (even though Nic had to put a hand on my knee to stop me from leaping to my feet in over-anxious enthusiasm and my face burnt with embarrassment at my limited bio) I was able to walk reasonably calmly to the microphone and read my two poems. People laughed (at the funny bits), people clapped, I was relieved and high on 'I-did-it'.

Later, I was able to schmooze with alicia and Nathan and meet some lovely local people too. I'm pleased to report that nobody knew I was nervous (or at least they were all too polite to say so) and that my poems went over well.

Now I can't wait to do it again...

these are the days...

2008-11-26T11:59:00.000+11:00

Spring days are hopeful happiness with the scent of approaching heat. They are orange and yellow bursting from blooms and carpetting every step we take towards new goals, changes and dreams. Spring is a quirky raised eyebrow that hints at sly amusement and sensuous invitation. Long languid bodies peel out of winter layers and chilled wine slides into crisp glasses on verandahs and front porch swings. Spring smiles at passerbys and reclines to wait to be overtaken by Summer.

A Poem: Now or Never

2008-11-21T14:21:00.000+11:00

Maybe this is a good one to start with because it's how I'm feeling about the poetry reading - to stay and settle would be safer...

Now or Never

Maybe it’s now or never

Time to experience the exotic

To stay and settle would be safer

I’m ready to go and discover

Away from running hectic

Maybe it’s now or never

There are ties I don’t want to sever

Relationships that aren’t episodic

To stay and settle would be safer

Time is a fickle lover

Don’t want to leave out of panic

Maybe it’s now or never

Growing older dreams grown over

What is this need to hover?

To stay and settle would be safer

What makes youth run for cover

And hide in the dark feeling sick?

Maybe it’s now or never

To stay and settle would be safer.

A Poetry Reading

2008-11-21T14:06:00.001+11:00

Next Friday I am going to be part of a poetry reading which is a collaborative effort between Bendigo Poets and the Going Down Swinging commissioned event called 'Static'.

I'm quite daunted and even a bit intimidated by the other names and their achievements. I sat reading through the Bios last night and felt sick at being included when I have so little to show for my writing efforts. I'm nestled amongst logie winners; published poets, short story writers and novelists; and generally fabulous people. I'm not sure what I'll have to contribute.

That said, I'm also very excited and really looking forward to it. I probably didn't need this distraction amongst report writing though...

Some poems that I'm considering to follow.

Writers need a Blog

2008-11-20T21:59:00.000+11:00

I read somewhere recently (possibly on a blog) that writers need to have their own blog - I'm not sure if it's a matter of 'being seen' or just the idea that we get to rave on for a while and imagine that somebody is actually reading it somewhere.

In any case, now I've got one. Stay tuned for words...