I have not been on holidays, as the lack of recent posts on this blog might lead you to suspect - if I had, then posts with pictures of surf, sunshine, and fish, would have been popping up. I have been busy providing support as various family members deal with the fraying and unravelling of some of the threads of the tapestry of their lives. Stories have ended, and been lost, and threads have broken beyond repair, remaining only in memory.
It has been a difficult, trying time for some of them, and providing support has meant letting some of my routines slip - but that is life. No amount of planning can identify the exact time and place when certain contingencies will pounce on us, even when the general form and likelyhood of such events is anticipated long in advance.
As the family have moved through the various emergencies and emerged at new balance points, I have been able once again to find time to write. The journal came first, of course, as I needed to record and make sense of the things that were happening around me. As a degree of normality returned, I was able to once again address the final scenes of my current attempt at a novel - though that was simmering all the while at the back of my mind, and may even have benefited from the process of fermentation.
A couple of days ago I was able to declare the first draft complete - the first time I have attempted a full length novel and reached a conclusion that I found satisfactory. Short stories have always felt easier - the ingredients for the ending or the punch line are usually present in the opening lines or paragraphs. The threads are fewer, and the weave, though it can be complex, does not have the potential for tangles that a few hundred pages can hold. Short stories can be knotty, but novels can develop dreadlocks - combing them out can be so painful that the only option is run the clippers over it and start afresh.
Already I am building a mental file of the knots that need undoing or cutting, the trimming and polishing that has to happen to make a draft into a novel, and finding the idea of working on the second draft appealing. Does that mean I am on the right road to completion? I hope so, because the concept, characters, and scenes for another novel are already trying to get my attention. Topical as those concepts and characters are, I need to get started soon.
Tonight looks like being the first in a few days not to be illuminated by lightning storms, so, as I doze off, thinking about my stories, I hope to be soothed by the murmur of the creek that has been refreshed by those storms, and the cheerful calls of the frogs and crickets enlivened by the rain and the rising waters.
Sunday, 16 December 2018
Friday, 23 November 2018
Round Each New Corner....
The road goes ever on and on, said the Hobbit, and thus it is also with work in the garden. As you near the end of one stretch of edging, weeding, or pruning, another space presents itself to the eyes and wakens the imagination, as it asks you to attend to its particular needs or potentials.
Spade an edge clear of twisting, burrowing tendrils of grass, making a clean border twixt lawn and garden, and the neat line of fresh soil calls attention to the weeds lurking between favoured plants, or highlights the dying tussocks that now slump down across next winter's daffodils and next spring's irises.
Though the spade in your hand still has more work to do, other tools are calling - hoe, weeder, secateurs, and rake, all crying out for their chance in the sun. A bare patch of soil is begging for a cutting, seedling or rhizome from some other, overcrowded corner of the garden. Perhaps the shade that covers that bare patch says violets, or the bright sunlight asks for a daisy or gazania.
A newly mowed lawn makes even a slightly dishevelled herb or flower bed look like the proverbial sore thumb - though a wind such as the one that galloped through the Blue Mountains last night and this morning will soon cover such distinctions in a carpet of tattered leaves and torn twigs, and the grass rake will stand up eagerly, hoping for employment. And so the work begins anew - and all the while the words are gathering in an unused corner of your mind, preparing to leap onto the page when you return to your desk.
For me, the routine work of the garden - be that garden a few square metres next to the house, or a few acres of squarely spaced watermelon or pumpkin vines unfurling their first large leaves towards the sun - is a meditative time in which my mind can wander far and wide across memories both past and future, undisturbed by the demands of society.
Characters long forgotten, or newly created, can act out their parts on the broad stage of our imagination, unfettered by mere reality, while the hoe continues inflicting its routine, repetitive destruction on the weeds that have dared colonise the territories around these favoured plants of mine.
Spade an edge clear of twisting, burrowing tendrils of grass, making a clean border twixt lawn and garden, and the neat line of fresh soil calls attention to the weeds lurking between favoured plants, or highlights the dying tussocks that now slump down across next winter's daffodils and next spring's irises.
Though the spade in your hand still has more work to do, other tools are calling - hoe, weeder, secateurs, and rake, all crying out for their chance in the sun. A bare patch of soil is begging for a cutting, seedling or rhizome from some other, overcrowded corner of the garden. Perhaps the shade that covers that bare patch says violets, or the bright sunlight asks for a daisy or gazania.
A newly mowed lawn makes even a slightly dishevelled herb or flower bed look like the proverbial sore thumb - though a wind such as the one that galloped through the Blue Mountains last night and this morning will soon cover such distinctions in a carpet of tattered leaves and torn twigs, and the grass rake will stand up eagerly, hoping for employment. And so the work begins anew - and all the while the words are gathering in an unused corner of your mind, preparing to leap onto the page when you return to your desk.
For me, the routine work of the garden - be that garden a few square metres next to the house, or a few acres of squarely spaced watermelon or pumpkin vines unfurling their first large leaves towards the sun - is a meditative time in which my mind can wander far and wide across memories both past and future, undisturbed by the demands of society.
Characters long forgotten, or newly created, can act out their parts on the broad stage of our imagination, unfettered by mere reality, while the hoe continues inflicting its routine, repetitive destruction on the weeds that have dared colonise the territories around these favoured plants of mine.
Wednesday, 14 November 2018
Tempus Fugit
With all my creative efforts going into the final chapter of my novel, and most of my remaining time going into preparing for the oncoming fire season - mowing and clearing - as well as helping out with a variety of family issues, I've lost track of my blogging - again. In the absence of any writerly thoughts to offer you, can I instead present a few instances of the beauty that surrounds me, whenever I have the good sense to get outside and enjoy it....?
Australia's own jacaranda - a white cedar about to bloom
The bush has so many tiny treasures - we just need to move slowly enough to see them
The grape vines along my garden fence, enjoying Spring rain and sunshine
Wednesday, 7 November 2018
Misplaced Omniscience
Living in the moment - it is what we do, even when our thoughts are drifting back over past events, or trying to envisage or shape possible futures. How much do we know, in this moment, of the infinite previous moments that have helped build and shape the present we live in? We certainly cannot know our future, and can do no more than estimate possible futures.
As an author, we are, in effect, God - we know everything that each of our imaginary characters does not know, or knows only partially - we can reach out to any point in the time line of our story and amend acts, thoughts, words, and emotions, and bring to our story the logical consistency that the reader expects from us.
I could ask why the readers, in the face of the many apparently random facts and logical inconsistencies of their own lives, expect me, a mere scribbler, to produce a mini-universe that is consistent and logical, but that would be so hypocritical, given the similar demands that I have placed on so many other authors over the decades. To be fair, I also find myself expecting such consistency and logic from my political representatives - and look how often that comes to fruition.
So, expect it, we do - thus, when working your way through that crucial second draft, keep in mind that spelling and grammar errors are possibly the least of the problems you need to be alert to. Your editor, with pedantic eye and punishing pen, will find those, should you travel that far.
No, what you need to beware of are those leakages from your omniscient, authorial knowledge to the limited understandings held by your characters. It is something I am constantly on watch for, as it is so easy to allow the protagonist to know something that he/she should not - at least, not at this point in the story.
I don't know about the rest of you, but I find that I need to be especially vigilant for this problem as I slide back and forth along the time line of the story I am working on. Does anyone have an easy, guaranteed method of avoiding this sort of mistake?
As an author, we are, in effect, God - we know everything that each of our imaginary characters does not know, or knows only partially - we can reach out to any point in the time line of our story and amend acts, thoughts, words, and emotions, and bring to our story the logical consistency that the reader expects from us.
I could ask why the readers, in the face of the many apparently random facts and logical inconsistencies of their own lives, expect me, a mere scribbler, to produce a mini-universe that is consistent and logical, but that would be so hypocritical, given the similar demands that I have placed on so many other authors over the decades. To be fair, I also find myself expecting such consistency and logic from my political representatives - and look how often that comes to fruition.
So, expect it, we do - thus, when working your way through that crucial second draft, keep in mind that spelling and grammar errors are possibly the least of the problems you need to be alert to. Your editor, with pedantic eye and punishing pen, will find those, should you travel that far.
No, what you need to beware of are those leakages from your omniscient, authorial knowledge to the limited understandings held by your characters. It is something I am constantly on watch for, as it is so easy to allow the protagonist to know something that he/she should not - at least, not at this point in the story.
I don't know about the rest of you, but I find that I need to be especially vigilant for this problem as I slide back and forth along the time line of the story I am working on. Does anyone have an easy, guaranteed method of avoiding this sort of mistake?
Tuesday, 30 October 2018
Wonders Unseen in Plain Sight
A few months ago, Spring seemed to have arrived early, but when the calendar rolled on into October, Winter reclaimed our Mountains. The rains we had wished for so fervently began to seem endless - the parched grass and gardens suddenly flourished in a tide of verdancy and blossom, and lower parts of our yard began to squelch underfoot - the frogs loved it, though, as did our Magpie landlords, when the earthworms were forced up to the surface to swim for high ground.
Now, as the final month of Spring approaches, and the soft green leaves burst from the twigs of Plane and Oak and Alder, Summer has charged onto the scene, and the many scaly and feathered denizens of our little vale are getting their sunbaking done early, before the sun begins to bite too hard.
Earlier, as I walked to the village shops, I found one of our resident Magpies "spread-eagled" on a patch of dry mulch at the foot of the hedge. For one horrified moment I looked at a pile of ruffled, outstretched, black and white feathers that looked like it had been put to its rest with a cricket bat, but as soon as I spoke, his head rose. He looked over one fluffed up shoulder as if to say "do you mind?" and settled back to his repose in the sunshine. He was in the shade when I returned, quietly practicing a tune for future display.
I was reminded of a thought that comes to me around this time every year. What a wonder it is to be able to walk down a tree-shaded avenue when the sun is casting so much heat in my direction; if it weren't for those delicate green membranes that stretch out from twig and branch to capture that sunlight, life would be far less pleasant.
The sunlight that would make the pavement too hot to walk upon, or sear the grass and herbs that lurk in the coolness beneath the spreading tree-branches, is caught and broken up by that fragile leaf.
Some is thrown back into the air to give us the lush greens that delight our eyes, and some is locked up in chemical bonds that join simple molecules of water and carbon dioxide into basic sugars, a result of the photosynthetic micro-factories that make up so much of each leaf.
How much of that heat does a leaf gather from the sunlight and conceal in the valence bonds of the sugar it creates?
Put a match to a dried leaf, or to a pile of leaves, come Autumn, and warm your hands by the flame for a while - quite a bit, isn't it? The leaves feed the twigs and branches, and build a world so different from the one that would exist without them. Truly wonderful stuff, all that heat captured and stored safely for future use as food for caterpillars, or sheep, or cattle - or as mulch to nourish and nurture other plants.
Now, as the final month of Spring approaches, and the soft green leaves burst from the twigs of Plane and Oak and Alder, Summer has charged onto the scene, and the many scaly and feathered denizens of our little vale are getting their sunbaking done early, before the sun begins to bite too hard.
Earlier, as I walked to the village shops, I found one of our resident Magpies "spread-eagled" on a patch of dry mulch at the foot of the hedge. For one horrified moment I looked at a pile of ruffled, outstretched, black and white feathers that looked like it had been put to its rest with a cricket bat, but as soon as I spoke, his head rose. He looked over one fluffed up shoulder as if to say "do you mind?" and settled back to his repose in the sunshine. He was in the shade when I returned, quietly practicing a tune for future display.
I was reminded of a thought that comes to me around this time every year. What a wonder it is to be able to walk down a tree-shaded avenue when the sun is casting so much heat in my direction; if it weren't for those delicate green membranes that stretch out from twig and branch to capture that sunlight, life would be far less pleasant.
The sunlight that would make the pavement too hot to walk upon, or sear the grass and herbs that lurk in the coolness beneath the spreading tree-branches, is caught and broken up by that fragile leaf.
Some is thrown back into the air to give us the lush greens that delight our eyes, and some is locked up in chemical bonds that join simple molecules of water and carbon dioxide into basic sugars, a result of the photosynthetic micro-factories that make up so much of each leaf.
How much of that heat does a leaf gather from the sunlight and conceal in the valence bonds of the sugar it creates?
Put a match to a dried leaf, or to a pile of leaves, come Autumn, and warm your hands by the flame for a while - quite a bit, isn't it? The leaves feed the twigs and branches, and build a world so different from the one that would exist without them. Truly wonderful stuff, all that heat captured and stored safely for future use as food for caterpillars, or sheep, or cattle - or as mulch to nourish and nurture other plants.
Monday, 29 October 2018
If a picture paints a thousand words....
If a picture paints a thousand words, how few words can I use to describe succinctly the beauty in an image such as this?
White sunlight shattered and scattered into its rainbow parts, reflecting from blood red Waratah blossoms, framed by translucent copper sprouting along a plum twig, amid shadow-dappled, chlorophyll-glossed leaves breathing verdant life and beauty into the garden.
See how that flower calls to the eye, even from a distance, surrounded and almost hidden by a tangled quilt of branches, twigs, leaves, needles, and shadows. It wants to be seen, no matter how thoroughly the other plants may try to conceal it. Such beauty cries out for a story, and I have encountered several stories explaining the vivid colour of the Waratah.
In one, the flower - once white - is stained red with the blood of a Wonga Pigeon that is wounded by a hawk while seeking its mate. In another, the red is given to the flower by the blood of a Black Snake that is wounded defending a human child of its totem - while a third story has the flower coloured red by a fiery cataclysm of falling stars.
How old are such stories? For how long have our ancestors being weaving words to pass on to their descendants the stories of the beauty of the world we all live in? What is it that drives us to record and describe the world we see - to pass our observations on to those far away in space and time?
What exactly were they trying to tell us with those stories?
Now cameras are now ubiquitous, and many people use pictures with minimal captions or no words at all, allowing the picture to tell the story or ask the question. Are cameras displacing descriptive writing? Often, yes - or so it seems. But what does a picture tell us if there is no story accompanying it, or embedded in it, meshing into a wider culture that the viewer knows and understands?
Before cameras there were other images - before written or printed words, there were images - paintings on cave walls, carvings, images on wood or clay or stone or bark - representations to assist in the remembering and telling of stories. Such methods are still in use, and just as DVDs failed to eliminate vinyl records from the world, and ebooks have had to live along side the paper-leaved books they were supposed to be replacing, modern technology will not eliminate our need to create images with our hands and our tongues.
For, in the end, what do we have with which to show others that we were here, thinking and feeling and loving, but the images we offer in the words we speak or sign, or the images we scratch or draw or paint? And will they understand what we offered them?
White sunlight shattered and scattered into its rainbow parts, reflecting from blood red Waratah blossoms, framed by translucent copper sprouting along a plum twig, amid shadow-dappled, chlorophyll-glossed leaves breathing verdant life and beauty into the garden.
See how that flower calls to the eye, even from a distance, surrounded and almost hidden by a tangled quilt of branches, twigs, leaves, needles, and shadows. It wants to be seen, no matter how thoroughly the other plants may try to conceal it. Such beauty cries out for a story, and I have encountered several stories explaining the vivid colour of the Waratah.
In one, the flower - once white - is stained red with the blood of a Wonga Pigeon that is wounded by a hawk while seeking its mate. In another, the red is given to the flower by the blood of a Black Snake that is wounded defending a human child of its totem - while a third story has the flower coloured red by a fiery cataclysm of falling stars.
How old are such stories? For how long have our ancestors being weaving words to pass on to their descendants the stories of the beauty of the world we all live in? What is it that drives us to record and describe the world we see - to pass our observations on to those far away in space and time?
What exactly were they trying to tell us with those stories?
Now cameras are now ubiquitous, and many people use pictures with minimal captions or no words at all, allowing the picture to tell the story or ask the question. Are cameras displacing descriptive writing? Often, yes - or so it seems. But what does a picture tell us if there is no story accompanying it, or embedded in it, meshing into a wider culture that the viewer knows and understands?
Before cameras there were other images - before written or printed words, there were images - paintings on cave walls, carvings, images on wood or clay or stone or bark - representations to assist in the remembering and telling of stories. Such methods are still in use, and just as DVDs failed to eliminate vinyl records from the world, and ebooks have had to live along side the paper-leaved books they were supposed to be replacing, modern technology will not eliminate our need to create images with our hands and our tongues.
For, in the end, what do we have with which to show others that we were here, thinking and feeling and loving, but the images we offer in the words we speak or sign, or the images we scratch or draw or paint? And will they understand what we offered them?
Thursday, 25 October 2018
Rainy Day Reading
Wet weather, as well as helping the garden, provides a wonderful excuse for settling somewhere dry and comfortable, and reading. This month I indulged in a couple of works about great writers who are no longer with us, and one by another very successful author who is still at it.
As my current "major work" in progress is a crime/thriller, the appearance of "The Lost Detective: Becoming Dashiell Hammett" at the returns desk was just too tempting, and I just had to borrow it.
Whether you are intending to write crime stories or not, this is a worthwhile read - his well known contemporary, Raymond Chandler, described Hammett as "the ace performer".
Nathan Ward takes us deeply into the life of this great writer, and the swirling, chaotic life of the United States during the first four decades of the twentieth century - he shows us a man with deep flaws, incredible determination and persistance in the face of dreadful setbacks, and amazing story-telling abilities.
He also takes us into the murky world of US politics at a time when organized labour movements were engaged in frequent, often violent, conflict with employers. Hammett's brief experiences as an operative with the Pinkerton Agency are a real eye-opener, and left him deeply disillusioned with many aspects of society, authority, and politics. It gave me, as an Australian, a deeper understanding of the reasons behind the way many crime-writers have portrayed authority figures in the US.
Another slim volume - "No Time to Spare" by Ursula K Le Guin - is a collection of excerpts from her blog, and was published shortly before her death. Not much I can say about it other than it is really worth a read.
She was a great writer, her blogging - taken up late in life, with a certain degree of reluctance - is fascinating, and whether you are an aspiring writer, or simply a lover of her work, this is worth a look. It even gave this Non-Cat Person some new and interesting insights into the life and thought processes of cats. To my children and step-children - this is not a request for a kitten, ok?
For those who are aspiring writers, including those who may turn their nose up at his work, can I also recommend Stephen King's memoir - On Writing? I enjoyed some of his earlier works, have not read many of his later ones, but this book - another slim volume - is excellent, for many reasons. The first part is mostly memoir, and even if you feel you do not need or wish to know the story of his life, persist - it meshes deeply with the "how to write" part. If you skip the first half, you will end up wanting to double back, so take the time up front.
One part of King's book gave me great satisfaction; I have often told people that a novella he wrote early on, using the pseudonym "Richard Bachman" and called "The Long Walk"was his best piece - I was tickled to find him declaring that he too regarded it as his finest work.
As my current "major work" in progress is a crime/thriller, the appearance of "The Lost Detective: Becoming Dashiell Hammett" at the returns desk was just too tempting, and I just had to borrow it.
Whether you are intending to write crime stories or not, this is a worthwhile read - his well known contemporary, Raymond Chandler, described Hammett as "the ace performer".
Nathan Ward takes us deeply into the life of this great writer, and the swirling, chaotic life of the United States during the first four decades of the twentieth century - he shows us a man with deep flaws, incredible determination and persistance in the face of dreadful setbacks, and amazing story-telling abilities.
He also takes us into the murky world of US politics at a time when organized labour movements were engaged in frequent, often violent, conflict with employers. Hammett's brief experiences as an operative with the Pinkerton Agency are a real eye-opener, and left him deeply disillusioned with many aspects of society, authority, and politics. It gave me, as an Australian, a deeper understanding of the reasons behind the way many crime-writers have portrayed authority figures in the US.
Another slim volume - "No Time to Spare" by Ursula K Le Guin - is a collection of excerpts from her blog, and was published shortly before her death. Not much I can say about it other than it is really worth a read.
She was a great writer, her blogging - taken up late in life, with a certain degree of reluctance - is fascinating, and whether you are an aspiring writer, or simply a lover of her work, this is worth a look. It even gave this Non-Cat Person some new and interesting insights into the life and thought processes of cats. To my children and step-children - this is not a request for a kitten, ok?
For those who are aspiring writers, including those who may turn their nose up at his work, can I also recommend Stephen King's memoir - On Writing? I enjoyed some of his earlier works, have not read many of his later ones, but this book - another slim volume - is excellent, for many reasons. The first part is mostly memoir, and even if you feel you do not need or wish to know the story of his life, persist - it meshes deeply with the "how to write" part. If you skip the first half, you will end up wanting to double back, so take the time up front.
One part of King's book gave me great satisfaction; I have often told people that a novella he wrote early on, using the pseudonym "Richard Bachman" and called "The Long Walk"was his best piece - I was tickled to find him declaring that he too regarded it as his finest work.
Friday, 19 October 2018
Looking Up
Two weeks ago I was enjoying the verdancy produced by the late September rains, while worrying it would not be enough to break the drought. 196 mm of rain later (almost 8 inches) and two almost continuous weeks of low cloud, rain, and dampness creeping into everything, and the lake is overflowing, the creek is carrying tons of water over the Falls towards Lake Burragorang, and life is flourishing. The true owners of our Spring garden are now over-running all corners of it.....
The constant downpours sent many of the marauding molluscs up the tree trunks, but the flood they were fleeing did not eventuate, and now they are coming back down to munch on the tastier parts of the vegetation.....
The rain of this month alone has deposited almost 600,000 litres of water - 600 tons - on our property, and more is seeping in from the places uphill. The frogs are calling in great numbers, the birds are excited, and I am jumping at sudden skittering noises among the leaves, as I walk around the place.
After encountering that Copperhead a few weeks ago, my snake-alertness levels have risen. Also rising fast are the numbers of tiny Skinks that are seeking warmth and food in every corner of the garden. So far, the rustling and skittering has all been from those tiny, scaly slivers of lizard, dashing for cover as I crash about. Their parents and grandparents seem to know me well enough not to bother spoiling their sunbaking when I pass, but the tiny ones seem to fear everything that moves - and rightly so, as many of our birds would see them as a perfect snack for the squalling nestlings constantly calling for food, and the smaller snakes, too, would not pass up such opportunities.
When I walk to the village in the mornings, I often pass some time chatting with our local baker - if that is the right term, as he does a lot more than just bread and pastries. He has been cooking german style food in the same place for decades, and is known well beyond this neighbourhood. The other morning, as he was opening the big, canvas umbrellas that shelter the outdoor tables between his front door and the street, he told me that one of the things he loves about Australia is that, no matter what the season, he always has flowers in his garden.
He's right - we live in a wonderfully fortunate place. His home town was somewhere well into the hills and forests of Bavaria, and he has often told tales of the great depths of snow that would pile up around and upon the buildings. At times, it was possible to open a window on the upper floor of his mother's house and step straight out onto level snow. That depth of cold is unthinkable to someone like me, who grew up on the Cumberland Plain, and was astounded if there was frost on the lawn.
Here in the Blue Mountains, which most Sydney-siders regard as the cold place up the other end of the M4 Motorway, we see seasonal waves of brilliant blossom roll through our gardens, providing highlights above and amid a constant flourishing of so many different plants, native and exotic. In fact, the poorest time for blossoms is late Summer, when even the "cold" mountains can wilt under 35 to 45 degree (Celsius) heatwaves, and week-long blasts of hot wind from the interior of the continent.
Still, late Summer is a great time for the Roses, and, in my back garden, there will usually be a sea of yellow as the Pumpkins - intentional and self sown - make their annual dash for immortality, and keep the bees happy in the process. It is a wonderful world we live in, may we all treat it kindly.
The constant downpours sent many of the marauding molluscs up the tree trunks, but the flood they were fleeing did not eventuate, and now they are coming back down to munch on the tastier parts of the vegetation.....
The rain of this month alone has deposited almost 600,000 litres of water - 600 tons - on our property, and more is seeping in from the places uphill. The frogs are calling in great numbers, the birds are excited, and I am jumping at sudden skittering noises among the leaves, as I walk around the place.
After encountering that Copperhead a few weeks ago, my snake-alertness levels have risen. Also rising fast are the numbers of tiny Skinks that are seeking warmth and food in every corner of the garden. So far, the rustling and skittering has all been from those tiny, scaly slivers of lizard, dashing for cover as I crash about. Their parents and grandparents seem to know me well enough not to bother spoiling their sunbaking when I pass, but the tiny ones seem to fear everything that moves - and rightly so, as many of our birds would see them as a perfect snack for the squalling nestlings constantly calling for food, and the smaller snakes, too, would not pass up such opportunities.
When I walk to the village in the mornings, I often pass some time chatting with our local baker - if that is the right term, as he does a lot more than just bread and pastries. He has been cooking german style food in the same place for decades, and is known well beyond this neighbourhood. The other morning, as he was opening the big, canvas umbrellas that shelter the outdoor tables between his front door and the street, he told me that one of the things he loves about Australia is that, no matter what the season, he always has flowers in his garden.
He's right - we live in a wonderfully fortunate place. His home town was somewhere well into the hills and forests of Bavaria, and he has often told tales of the great depths of snow that would pile up around and upon the buildings. At times, it was possible to open a window on the upper floor of his mother's house and step straight out onto level snow. That depth of cold is unthinkable to someone like me, who grew up on the Cumberland Plain, and was astounded if there was frost on the lawn.
Here in the Blue Mountains, which most Sydney-siders regard as the cold place up the other end of the M4 Motorway, we see seasonal waves of brilliant blossom roll through our gardens, providing highlights above and amid a constant flourishing of so many different plants, native and exotic. In fact, the poorest time for blossoms is late Summer, when even the "cold" mountains can wilt under 35 to 45 degree (Celsius) heatwaves, and week-long blasts of hot wind from the interior of the continent.
Still, late Summer is a great time for the Roses, and, in my back garden, there will usually be a sea of yellow as the Pumpkins - intentional and self sown - make their annual dash for immortality, and keep the bees happy in the process. It is a wonderful world we live in, may we all treat it kindly.
Monday, 8 October 2018
It's Not What You Know......
.... it's who you know. A trite old cliche, perhaps, but far more apt than many in power like to admit to anyone outside of that circle of people that they know.
A quarter of a century ago, British anthropologist Robin Dunbar proposed a relationship between the size of the human neo-cortex and the number of relationships with other people that a typical person could comfortably maintain. He suggested 150 would be about the right number.
Others have suggested as low as 100 or as high as almost 300, but there seems to be agreement among scientists that there is a limit to how many people one person can comfortably know and relate to. For some of us, those relationships might be mapped on a set of concentric circles, with our family and loved ones close around us at the bullseye, and the remainder - friends, colleagues, neighbours, team-mates - distributed across the rings. Others might view those relationships in the form of a web, or perhaps as a pyramid, with themselves at the apex.
If Dunbar's Number is accurate at 150 relationships, consider that the current population of our planet is approximately fifty million times that number - that is 50,000,000 lots of Dunbar's Number. In Australia, the difference is about one hundred and seventy thousand - 170,000 - times Dunbar's Number. Our National Parliament contains 150 Representatives - one Dunbar - and the Senate contains 76 Senators - half a Dunbar.
So a member of our Federal Parliament is going to be expected to be able to talk to all of the other politicians in the House and Senate, as well as his or her own staff, and the senior staff of the House or Senate, and various other senior staff working for other Members or Senators, or for various Departments and Agencies, as well as to non-elected members of their own Party, including, especially, those Party members back in their electorate - upon whose continuing good will the Member will be relying for future campaign support and pre-selection votes.
Did I forget to mention the various Very Important Donors and Lobbyists with whom the politician will be expected to chat, drink, eat, and generally socialize?
Worst of all, I seem to have forgotten the Member's family - who might surely be expecting some continuing social and familial intercourse and support. That's alright, though, as a number of Members also appear to forget their families, so I can't be blamed for my omission, and it can be hard to apportion care, compassion, and fellow feeling to people beyond one's own Dunbar Limit.
What's my point, you ask? Well, it is that the public perception that the average politician, once ensconced in Canberra (or Macquarie Street, or where ever it is they went after the votes were counted), seems to forget about the needs and wants of the electors who sent them into Parliament is supported by the science.
Their brains - specifically their neo-cortexes - are not up to the task of remembering the rest of us, as it is all they can do to keep track of the faces they encounter each day in the Corridors of Power.
Should we feel sorry for them? Possibly; at least, we could feel as sorry for them as they do for us.....
A quarter of a century ago, British anthropologist Robin Dunbar proposed a relationship between the size of the human neo-cortex and the number of relationships with other people that a typical person could comfortably maintain. He suggested 150 would be about the right number.
Others have suggested as low as 100 or as high as almost 300, but there seems to be agreement among scientists that there is a limit to how many people one person can comfortably know and relate to. For some of us, those relationships might be mapped on a set of concentric circles, with our family and loved ones close around us at the bullseye, and the remainder - friends, colleagues, neighbours, team-mates - distributed across the rings. Others might view those relationships in the form of a web, or perhaps as a pyramid, with themselves at the apex.
If Dunbar's Number is accurate at 150 relationships, consider that the current population of our planet is approximately fifty million times that number - that is 50,000,000 lots of Dunbar's Number. In Australia, the difference is about one hundred and seventy thousand - 170,000 - times Dunbar's Number. Our National Parliament contains 150 Representatives - one Dunbar - and the Senate contains 76 Senators - half a Dunbar.
So a member of our Federal Parliament is going to be expected to be able to talk to all of the other politicians in the House and Senate, as well as his or her own staff, and the senior staff of the House or Senate, and various other senior staff working for other Members or Senators, or for various Departments and Agencies, as well as to non-elected members of their own Party, including, especially, those Party members back in their electorate - upon whose continuing good will the Member will be relying for future campaign support and pre-selection votes.
Did I forget to mention the various Very Important Donors and Lobbyists with whom the politician will be expected to chat, drink, eat, and generally socialize?
Worst of all, I seem to have forgotten the Member's family - who might surely be expecting some continuing social and familial intercourse and support. That's alright, though, as a number of Members also appear to forget their families, so I can't be blamed for my omission, and it can be hard to apportion care, compassion, and fellow feeling to people beyond one's own Dunbar Limit.
What's my point, you ask? Well, it is that the public perception that the average politician, once ensconced in Canberra (or Macquarie Street, or where ever it is they went after the votes were counted), seems to forget about the needs and wants of the electors who sent them into Parliament is supported by the science.
Their brains - specifically their neo-cortexes - are not up to the task of remembering the rest of us, as it is all they can do to keep track of the faces they encounter each day in the Corridors of Power.
Should we feel sorry for them? Possibly; at least, we could feel as sorry for them as they do for us.....
Thursday, 4 October 2018
Not What it Looks Like
The aridity of late Winter was eased by early Spring rains - more rain is falling on The Mountains, and across The City on The Plain as I sit and watch the birds fossicking amid the falling petals...
There was wind yesterday, scattering petals in sudden gusts that made the parrots and rosellas sound the alarm and flee for the trees along the creek, like minnows scattering when a pebble lands amid the school. It is rarely very long before they are back at the feeder, squabbling over precedence like petty politicians at the annual photo-op with the VIP. If the birds were absent for more than a minute or two I would be outside, hoping to see a hawk or eagle circling - not that they would be seeing much today...
As lush as our garden has suddenly become, and as damp as everything looks, there is no extra water running down the creek to the Kedumba River and the great reservoir behind Warragamba Dam. Our lake at the head of the valley is still lower than I have ever seen it, and will need inches of rain to lift it to the level of the overflow - sorry, Sydney, we are keeping all of this batch for ourselves.
We promise to enjoy it, though...
Perhaps there will be apricots before Christmas.....
There was wind yesterday, scattering petals in sudden gusts that made the parrots and rosellas sound the alarm and flee for the trees along the creek, like minnows scattering when a pebble lands amid the school. It is rarely very long before they are back at the feeder, squabbling over precedence like petty politicians at the annual photo-op with the VIP. If the birds were absent for more than a minute or two I would be outside, hoping to see a hawk or eagle circling - not that they would be seeing much today...
As lush as our garden has suddenly become, and as damp as everything looks, there is no extra water running down the creek to the Kedumba River and the great reservoir behind Warragamba Dam. Our lake at the head of the valley is still lower than I have ever seen it, and will need inches of rain to lift it to the level of the overflow - sorry, Sydney, we are keeping all of this batch for ourselves.
We promise to enjoy it, though...
Perhaps there will be apricots before Christmas.....
Sunday, 23 September 2018
Is Spring Sprung?
When does Spring begin in eastern Australia? Specifically, I am thinking about Spring in the Blue Mountains of NSW - the jonquils began flowering before Autumn had ended, and the daffodils were in full flight half way through Winter, so they aren't valid indicators. Some say that the first day of Spring here is the beginning of September, while others plump for the equinox. My cherry trees seemed to think the equinox about right....
while Jack Frost wanted to argue the point.....
but, in this part of Australia, there is one sure sign that Winter has left the building, and that's when the firewood you were going to pick up for the BBQ decides it doesn't want to be collected.....
Although this garden is a kilometre above sea level, and there had been a nice frost at daybreak, by morning tea-time this little girl was out soaking up the sunshine. At not quite a meter long, she is a nice specimen of a Highland Copperhead - venomous, but not aggressive unless badly treated. In fact, they are considered one of the shy snakes of Australia, and I had only a few seconds to get photos before she was sliding towards a clump of shrubbery that offered shelter from Kookaburras and annoying paparazzi....
My wife says she didn't see any snake when she was picking up sticks in that same part of the garden only ten minutes earlier - was it not there, or did it succeed in pretending it wasn't? In any event, I think we can declare Spring is sprung.
while Jack Frost wanted to argue the point.....
but, in this part of Australia, there is one sure sign that Winter has left the building, and that's when the firewood you were going to pick up for the BBQ decides it doesn't want to be collected.....
Although this garden is a kilometre above sea level, and there had been a nice frost at daybreak, by morning tea-time this little girl was out soaking up the sunshine. At not quite a meter long, she is a nice specimen of a Highland Copperhead - venomous, but not aggressive unless badly treated. In fact, they are considered one of the shy snakes of Australia, and I had only a few seconds to get photos before she was sliding towards a clump of shrubbery that offered shelter from Kookaburras and annoying paparazzi....
My wife says she didn't see any snake when she was picking up sticks in that same part of the garden only ten minutes earlier - was it not there, or did it succeed in pretending it wasn't? In any event, I think we can declare Spring is sprung.
Sunday, 16 September 2018
Good Neighbours
The growl of a neighbour's lawn-mower has been obvious for an hour or so, and now, as the wind shifts, that wonderful scent of fresh-mown grass and clover is drifting in through one window and down the length of the house, searching for an exit.
Other, more distant, mowers have woken from their dry-winter slumbers over recent days, and even mine has poked its nose out of the garden shed for a little exercise, smashing the drifts of brown plane-tree leaves to a less water-repellent compost. It's back in the shed now, waiting for another warm spell, and the rosellas and other birds are, I think, grateful. All those areas yet unmowed are thick with tiny flowers and little seeds and subtle herbs that feed the birds, or feed the things upon which some of the birds feed.
As well as crimson rosellas, king parrots, and various honey-eaters, the finches, silver-eyes, wrens, magpies, currawongs, and kookaburras all look happy exploring the explosion of life that is our little vale in spring time. Even ducks and herons call in from time to time.
We humans and our machines are well behind the times, though - long before any of us thought of mowing, those first good showers of rain swept in a few weeks ago and woke the green shoots across the brick-bare earth beyond the front hedge, where the passing shoes and boots of locals and tourists had seemed to have worn the grass to dust. Within weeks there were patches of grass long enough to dampen the shoes, and even the socks, of travellers.
The moisture softened what had seemed impenetrable, and suddenly there were thousands of little holes and twisted coils of worm-castings as the hidden workers woke, wriggled, and flourished - opening, aerating, and fertilizing the soil. The earth-worms do for free what would otherwise cost us many hours and dollars. Few humans would willingly work as long and as hard as the worms do, and fewer would achieve the improvements these labourers contribute to the world they draw sustenance from.
Hidden buds swelled and opened, and just as suddenly, the bees were humming and buzzing in throngs as they searched through the hedges, herbs and vegetable gardens. Stems and twigs that seemed beaten down or even killed by the frost and bitter winds of winter found new suppleness - verdant or rosey blushes spread, and flowers that seemed unlikely a few weeks ago now draw crowds of avian and apian admirers as they trade nectar for procreative assistance.
Beautiful in its own right, this dance of insect and plant creates a wealth of food - honey, fruit, berries, and vegetables - and it happens whether we are watching or not. We can help, if we are careful, by fostering the growth of the plants that will provide food and shelter for all those natural workers - many of whom we rarely notice or know -and avoiding acts that will harm them.
How can we know if we are doing good or ill? That is a task that will occupy lifetimes of taking the five senses out into the garden and the bush - our lifetimes, and those that came before us, written or recorded for our benefit. There are those who will teach us, if we are willing to live out there with them, touching, smelling, tasting, seeing, and hearing.
Other, more distant, mowers have woken from their dry-winter slumbers over recent days, and even mine has poked its nose out of the garden shed for a little exercise, smashing the drifts of brown plane-tree leaves to a less water-repellent compost. It's back in the shed now, waiting for another warm spell, and the rosellas and other birds are, I think, grateful. All those areas yet unmowed are thick with tiny flowers and little seeds and subtle herbs that feed the birds, or feed the things upon which some of the birds feed.
As well as crimson rosellas, king parrots, and various honey-eaters, the finches, silver-eyes, wrens, magpies, currawongs, and kookaburras all look happy exploring the explosion of life that is our little vale in spring time. Even ducks and herons call in from time to time.
We humans and our machines are well behind the times, though - long before any of us thought of mowing, those first good showers of rain swept in a few weeks ago and woke the green shoots across the brick-bare earth beyond the front hedge, where the passing shoes and boots of locals and tourists had seemed to have worn the grass to dust. Within weeks there were patches of grass long enough to dampen the shoes, and even the socks, of travellers.
The moisture softened what had seemed impenetrable, and suddenly there were thousands of little holes and twisted coils of worm-castings as the hidden workers woke, wriggled, and flourished - opening, aerating, and fertilizing the soil. The earth-worms do for free what would otherwise cost us many hours and dollars. Few humans would willingly work as long and as hard as the worms do, and fewer would achieve the improvements these labourers contribute to the world they draw sustenance from.
Hidden buds swelled and opened, and just as suddenly, the bees were humming and buzzing in throngs as they searched through the hedges, herbs and vegetable gardens. Stems and twigs that seemed beaten down or even killed by the frost and bitter winds of winter found new suppleness - verdant or rosey blushes spread, and flowers that seemed unlikely a few weeks ago now draw crowds of avian and apian admirers as they trade nectar for procreative assistance.
Beautiful in its own right, this dance of insect and plant creates a wealth of food - honey, fruit, berries, and vegetables - and it happens whether we are watching or not. We can help, if we are careful, by fostering the growth of the plants that will provide food and shelter for all those natural workers - many of whom we rarely notice or know -and avoiding acts that will harm them.
How can we know if we are doing good or ill? That is a task that will occupy lifetimes of taking the five senses out into the garden and the bush - our lifetimes, and those that came before us, written or recorded for our benefit. There are those who will teach us, if we are willing to live out there with them, touching, smelling, tasting, seeing, and hearing.
Tuesday, 11 September 2018
Warming up
The transition from winter to spring seems to have been more precise and punctual than is usual for the Blue Mountains. Winter was clear, dry, and often frosty.
The wind arrived to blow the frost away, and our lake became a bonsai version of a storm-tossed ocean.
The snow, when it fell, settled mostly on the ranges beyond the Cox's River, and only a few flakes drifted across our gardens when the wind swung a little. Finally, the rain arrived.
The blossoms that had been latent were suddenly bright in bush and garden.....
The bees were suddenly spoiled for choice....
Everywhere I walk there is life. The warming soil and air has brought out that amazing community of worms and insects and lizards and birds that aerates our soils, pollinates our fruit and vegetables, and eats the aphids, bugs, and caterpillars that try to set up colonies on our favourite plants.
The magpies are dashing frantically to and from the heights of the tallest pine tree in the neighbourhood, ferrying a constant supply of worms, grubs, and donated mince to the demanding maws of this year's clutch of chicks.
The kookaburras are back, too - greeting the first rays of sunshine with their cheerful chorus, and patrolling the edges of our gardens, picking off the early skinks, while hoping for larger fare in the form of an snake or two.
Every season, in a place like this, has its pleasures and its wonders, but there is a lot to be said for the first few weeks of spring.
The wind arrived to blow the frost away, and our lake became a bonsai version of a storm-tossed ocean.
The snow, when it fell, settled mostly on the ranges beyond the Cox's River, and only a few flakes drifted across our gardens when the wind swung a little. Finally, the rain arrived.
The blossoms that had been latent were suddenly bright in bush and garden.....
The bees were suddenly spoiled for choice....
Everywhere I walk there is life. The warming soil and air has brought out that amazing community of worms and insects and lizards and birds that aerates our soils, pollinates our fruit and vegetables, and eats the aphids, bugs, and caterpillars that try to set up colonies on our favourite plants.
The magpies are dashing frantically to and from the heights of the tallest pine tree in the neighbourhood, ferrying a constant supply of worms, grubs, and donated mince to the demanding maws of this year's clutch of chicks.
The kookaburras are back, too - greeting the first rays of sunshine with their cheerful chorus, and patrolling the edges of our gardens, picking off the early skinks, while hoping for larger fare in the form of an snake or two.
Every season, in a place like this, has its pleasures and its wonders, but there is a lot to be said for the first few weeks of spring.
Monday, 3 September 2018
Am I Seeing it Right?
Does art imitate life, or does life imitate art? An oft asked question, but the apparent assumption is surely wrong - that one might be true does not mean the other must be false. Why did I even ask the question?
Yep - I'm once again lost in the pages of an interesting book, one that began simply enough but soon began to reveal layers of interwoven complexity that had me questioning my own perceptions - not only of the words I was reading, but of memory, understanding, and my experiences with life and other people.
My encounter with The Menagerie of False Truths developed from a simple beginning that soon took on twists and turns that echo its contents. Awake before dawn, and not wanting to disturb a sleeping household, I often put earplugs in and turn on my tiny pocket radio. At 5 am on most Saturdays of the year, the ABC Sydney station, as well as the one on the Central Coast, broadcast a show called The Big Fish.
The name, and even the promotional material, imply a show that might largely be a one hour fishing report from various correspondents around New South Wales, when in fact it is a radio stage, across which parade a remarkable array of characters, who tell fascinating, informative, and (mostly) amusing stories about people, fish, nature, weather, and, sometimes, politics.
This particular morning I tuned in a bit late, and found myself listening to the host, Scott Levi, questioning a chap about some exotic location in which he had been fishing for trout. The speaker, eventually identified as Greg French, was articulate and erudite, and it became apparent that he had written a number of books. A casual angler myself, I had not previously encountered his work - audio or published - and made a mental note to check the catalogue of my local library to see if we held anything by him.
We did, though we are not yet in possession of his latest book - Water Colour - but held other items by him, including "Menagerie" It was a title strange enough to pique my curiosity, and I ordered it sent up from the branch at which it had been reposing.
It swirls, as the pages turn, from disturbing, to amusing, to tragic, and back to disturbing, all the while informing as well as questioning. French touches on - digs into - aspects of perception and mis-perception, understanding and mis-understanding, ability and its lack, art, life, arrogance, humility, love, anger, grief, and suffering.
Each new understanding, though, came with an awareness that there must have been much more that I had missed - a re-reading will be in order, along with diversions to investigate concepts and information previously unmet.
At the heart of this novel are the perceptions, understandings, and behaviour that arise from the differences of mind and thought that society refers to as Autism, or The Spectrum, and the effects that those differences send to ripple out through families and communities that surround such people. It can be too easy to forget that each of us has a particular way of perceiving and understanding the world around us, and that of course affects our responses to the world and the life in it, including other people - what we see and hear may well be quite different to what they see and hear and feel.
Like fingerprints, each world view has its own unique whorls and curls and patterns - fingerprints, like world views, are meant to help us get a grip on the world around us; each pattern, though unique, still does its job, though some do not fit their surroundings as well as others.
The world we live in is complex, from micro to macro, beyond our ability to fully understand - but understanding it is a journey worth taking. Surprises are guaranteed, but so is delight.
Yep - I'm once again lost in the pages of an interesting book, one that began simply enough but soon began to reveal layers of interwoven complexity that had me questioning my own perceptions - not only of the words I was reading, but of memory, understanding, and my experiences with life and other people.
My encounter with The Menagerie of False Truths developed from a simple beginning that soon took on twists and turns that echo its contents. Awake before dawn, and not wanting to disturb a sleeping household, I often put earplugs in and turn on my tiny pocket radio. At 5 am on most Saturdays of the year, the ABC Sydney station, as well as the one on the Central Coast, broadcast a show called The Big Fish.
The name, and even the promotional material, imply a show that might largely be a one hour fishing report from various correspondents around New South Wales, when in fact it is a radio stage, across which parade a remarkable array of characters, who tell fascinating, informative, and (mostly) amusing stories about people, fish, nature, weather, and, sometimes, politics.
This particular morning I tuned in a bit late, and found myself listening to the host, Scott Levi, questioning a chap about some exotic location in which he had been fishing for trout. The speaker, eventually identified as Greg French, was articulate and erudite, and it became apparent that he had written a number of books. A casual angler myself, I had not previously encountered his work - audio or published - and made a mental note to check the catalogue of my local library to see if we held anything by him.
We did, though we are not yet in possession of his latest book - Water Colour - but held other items by him, including "Menagerie" It was a title strange enough to pique my curiosity, and I ordered it sent up from the branch at which it had been reposing.
It swirls, as the pages turn, from disturbing, to amusing, to tragic, and back to disturbing, all the while informing as well as questioning. French touches on - digs into - aspects of perception and mis-perception, understanding and mis-understanding, ability and its lack, art, life, arrogance, humility, love, anger, grief, and suffering.
Each new understanding, though, came with an awareness that there must have been much more that I had missed - a re-reading will be in order, along with diversions to investigate concepts and information previously unmet.
At the heart of this novel are the perceptions, understandings, and behaviour that arise from the differences of mind and thought that society refers to as Autism, or The Spectrum, and the effects that those differences send to ripple out through families and communities that surround such people. It can be too easy to forget that each of us has a particular way of perceiving and understanding the world around us, and that of course affects our responses to the world and the life in it, including other people - what we see and hear may well be quite different to what they see and hear and feel.
Like fingerprints, each world view has its own unique whorls and curls and patterns - fingerprints, like world views, are meant to help us get a grip on the world around us; each pattern, though unique, still does its job, though some do not fit their surroundings as well as others.
The world we live in is complex, from micro to macro, beyond our ability to fully understand - but understanding it is a journey worth taking. Surprises are guaranteed, but so is delight.
Sunday, 26 August 2018
Rainbows Made From Mud
Beyond the lawn that stretches from our back door, past our clothes line, around the corners of the orchard, there is a darker space. Keep walking and suddenly the warmth of the sun is gone from your shoulders. The shadows of the pines, casuarinas, hakeas and eucalypts are dense along the bank of the creek.
You can walk silently, your footfall absorbed by the deep carpet of fallen leaves and needles that is slowly darkening within those deep shadows, becoming one with the soil below. Where your boot soles bruise the rotting carpet, scents arise to tickle the nose - mold, terpenes, slime and mud all contribute to the bouquet. Stand quiet for a few minutes and the currents of life that stilled themselves at your intrusion will slowly resume their flow.
Insects will skitter, and skinks rustle among the leaves and fern-fronds. Perhaps a snake will rasp across the drying leaves in pursuit, the fear inspired by your presence overpowered by its need for prey. Wrens and finches will flit through the leaves, seeking a safe path between the serpent below the winged raptors above, and perhaps a pair of ducks will push ripples across the surface of the pool, startling the water insects, tadpoles, and minnows.
Stand still, breath slowly - more life will become obvious as you become less so. Lower your gaze and see the tiny scurryings among the blades of grass, as ants and spiders go about their business.
A place that seemed still and empty is revealed as a thriving market place of living and dying. Look closely, breath even more slowly - there is another level here, known more in the imagination than by any apparent movement.
Those fragments of plants and animals and fungi now fallen from their places are still busy - dying and decomposing and becoming part of the mud in and beside the creek. Mud that binds to and is bound by the roots of the trees and shrubs and ferns and rushes and grasses and violets that thrive on its richness. Below the mulch, the mud is alive, and is sharing its life with the fractal root-web of feeding plants.
Just there, by the bank - see the smooth grey-green and cream dappled bark of the eucalypt that dominates the head of this pool. Look inside it - see the miracle. Somehow that patient, motionless, trunk is busy pumping a vast flow of liquid towards the sky. From the sodden earth below, the sap carries microscopic fragments of that dark mud, lifting it twenty metres or more to the tiny, solar powered factories we call leaves.
Look up - you can see the undersides of the branches, twigs, and leaves - an airborne net to equal the complexity of the one below the surface. Yet there is something you cannot see from there. Back you go, back out into the sunlight, across the lawn, until you are further from the base of the tree than its topmost leaves are.
Look up again, see how the late afternoon sun is playing on the leaves - and something else. Tiny flecks of white among the green and orange growth - the tree is in blossom. The final destination of that miraculous flow of dissolved mud, brought all that way via root, trunk, branch, and twig, is that fragrant cluster of creamy reproductive complexity. In a few months, some of those flowers will have become gumnuts, holding within themselves seeds tiny enough to make acorns look clumsy.
But now, as the blossom basks in the sunlight, another miracle is taking place. Listen and look - living bells that chime and squawk and flutter and flash in shades of blue, green, yellow, orange and red - the rainbow lorikeets have arrived to feast on the nectar that is the penultimate product of that mighty trunk. The bees that have had only tiny honey eaters to compete with are now scattered by the chattering, swirling, feathered rainbow of lorikeets, and must circle hopefully, or yield, and return to their hive, and the leaves and petals that fell last year to become mud are once again airborne.
You can walk silently, your footfall absorbed by the deep carpet of fallen leaves and needles that is slowly darkening within those deep shadows, becoming one with the soil below. Where your boot soles bruise the rotting carpet, scents arise to tickle the nose - mold, terpenes, slime and mud all contribute to the bouquet. Stand quiet for a few minutes and the currents of life that stilled themselves at your intrusion will slowly resume their flow.
Insects will skitter, and skinks rustle among the leaves and fern-fronds. Perhaps a snake will rasp across the drying leaves in pursuit, the fear inspired by your presence overpowered by its need for prey. Wrens and finches will flit through the leaves, seeking a safe path between the serpent below the winged raptors above, and perhaps a pair of ducks will push ripples across the surface of the pool, startling the water insects, tadpoles, and minnows.
Stand still, breath slowly - more life will become obvious as you become less so. Lower your gaze and see the tiny scurryings among the blades of grass, as ants and spiders go about their business.
A place that seemed still and empty is revealed as a thriving market place of living and dying. Look closely, breath even more slowly - there is another level here, known more in the imagination than by any apparent movement.
Those fragments of plants and animals and fungi now fallen from their places are still busy - dying and decomposing and becoming part of the mud in and beside the creek. Mud that binds to and is bound by the roots of the trees and shrubs and ferns and rushes and grasses and violets that thrive on its richness. Below the mulch, the mud is alive, and is sharing its life with the fractal root-web of feeding plants.
Just there, by the bank - see the smooth grey-green and cream dappled bark of the eucalypt that dominates the head of this pool. Look inside it - see the miracle. Somehow that patient, motionless, trunk is busy pumping a vast flow of liquid towards the sky. From the sodden earth below, the sap carries microscopic fragments of that dark mud, lifting it twenty metres or more to the tiny, solar powered factories we call leaves.
Look up - you can see the undersides of the branches, twigs, and leaves - an airborne net to equal the complexity of the one below the surface. Yet there is something you cannot see from there. Back you go, back out into the sunlight, across the lawn, until you are further from the base of the tree than its topmost leaves are.
Look up again, see how the late afternoon sun is playing on the leaves - and something else. Tiny flecks of white among the green and orange growth - the tree is in blossom. The final destination of that miraculous flow of dissolved mud, brought all that way via root, trunk, branch, and twig, is that fragrant cluster of creamy reproductive complexity. In a few months, some of those flowers will have become gumnuts, holding within themselves seeds tiny enough to make acorns look clumsy.
But now, as the blossom basks in the sunlight, another miracle is taking place. Listen and look - living bells that chime and squawk and flutter and flash in shades of blue, green, yellow, orange and red - the rainbow lorikeets have arrived to feast on the nectar that is the penultimate product of that mighty trunk. The bees that have had only tiny honey eaters to compete with are now scattered by the chattering, swirling, feathered rainbow of lorikeets, and must circle hopefully, or yield, and return to their hive, and the leaves and petals that fell last year to become mud are once again airborne.
Tuesday, 21 August 2018
We humans are vain creatures - we long considered ourselves the only animals on the planet who possessed true language, the only tool users, the only artists, and the only truly conscious beings.
It seems likely that some of the other primates and the cetaceans, oh, and some of the birds, at the very least, would disagree with us.
Laurens van der Post and his story of the pact between honey badger, the honey-guide bird, and bushman is an example of communication - stories are told by humans, but how is it that the birds and the badgers also know to take part in the hunt for homey?
We still like to say we are distinguished from all other life on this world by our ability to tell stories - but is that true? Animals of many sorts have been known to deceive other animals using calls, posture, body language, and pantomime - is that not the telling of stories.
Bees return to hives and convey detailed information to their hive-mates, who in their turn interpret and act upon those stories.
When I was young, the science curriculum was teaching that "lesser" life was a sort of biological clockwork mechanism - all drives and instincts determined by genes.
Now we know how different the characters of members of the same species can be, how they play, form friendships and partnerships
Take the chimps who hunt other monkeys - they are observed having a conference before the hunt, and then splitting into groups, some to drive their pray, and some to lay in ambush.
Our language and story telling abilities are sophisticated, to be sure - but are they really so much more sophisticated that than other species possess, or do we only think that way because we fail to understand the depths and nuances of the communications of those others?
It seems likely that some of the other primates and the cetaceans, oh, and some of the birds, at the very least, would disagree with us.
Laurens van der Post and his story of the pact between honey badger, the honey-guide bird, and bushman is an example of communication - stories are told by humans, but how is it that the birds and the badgers also know to take part in the hunt for homey?
We still like to say we are distinguished from all other life on this world by our ability to tell stories - but is that true? Animals of many sorts have been known to deceive other animals using calls, posture, body language, and pantomime - is that not the telling of stories.
Bees return to hives and convey detailed information to their hive-mates, who in their turn interpret and act upon those stories.
When I was young, the science curriculum was teaching that "lesser" life was a sort of biological clockwork mechanism - all drives and instincts determined by genes.
Now we know how different the characters of members of the same species can be, how they play, form friendships and partnerships
Take the chimps who hunt other monkeys - they are observed having a conference before the hunt, and then splitting into groups, some to drive their pray, and some to lay in ambush.
Our language and story telling abilities are sophisticated, to be sure - but are they really so much more sophisticated that than other species possess, or do we only think that way because we fail to understand the depths and nuances of the communications of those others?
Tuesday, 7 August 2018
Oh, the Power
What wonderful. god-like powers the writer possesses! How amazing is it to be able, when some plot point becomes necessary to the continuation of the story, to be able to put it in place and then reach back down the time line of your work and insert the words and sentences that will make that plot point fit seemlessly into the suspended disbelief of the future readers.
The painter will need to paint over existing brush work to add some item or structure to support the new idea, and the sketcher will perhaps combine the eraser with overdrawing - but the underlying original marks are still there for the sharp-eyed.
The writer can miraculously delete, cut and paste, copy and paste, and insert, at will. If she is careful, those future readers will never detect even the faintest clue that the author was at any time less than omniscient. As a child, I took from the instructions of my teachers the idea that somehow the words flowing onto the page had to be the words that would be there for the reader. It was some time before I understood that was not the case - that I could write what I pleased, and screw it up and use only a few words or sentences from that page to start anew on a clean sheet.
Now I revel in that power - my pen can charge along a line of narrative or conversation as it flows from brain to nerves to fingers to ink, never pausing until it is done. I can worry about the fine detail, the justifications, the cause and effect, the wit and humour, the pathos and tears, and the believability, later - because I have The Power to Amend, Insert, or Erase, and I'm not afraid to use it.
The painter will need to paint over existing brush work to add some item or structure to support the new idea, and the sketcher will perhaps combine the eraser with overdrawing - but the underlying original marks are still there for the sharp-eyed.
The writer can miraculously delete, cut and paste, copy and paste, and insert, at will. If she is careful, those future readers will never detect even the faintest clue that the author was at any time less than omniscient. As a child, I took from the instructions of my teachers the idea that somehow the words flowing onto the page had to be the words that would be there for the reader. It was some time before I understood that was not the case - that I could write what I pleased, and screw it up and use only a few words or sentences from that page to start anew on a clean sheet.
Now I revel in that power - my pen can charge along a line of narrative or conversation as it flows from brain to nerves to fingers to ink, never pausing until it is done. I can worry about the fine detail, the justifications, the cause and effect, the wit and humour, the pathos and tears, and the believability, later - because I have The Power to Amend, Insert, or Erase, and I'm not afraid to use it.
Wednesday, 1 August 2018
Lotions and Potions
Just a little piece of doggerel that popped into my mind a few minutes ago - where did it come from, and why? I don't know - but here it is
Lotions and potions
And tablets and pills
Make you feel better
But don't cure your ills
Happy creating to all of you.
Lotions and potions
And tablets and pills
Make you feel better
But don't cure your ills
Happy creating to all of you.
Monday, 30 July 2018
Persephone's Return
Less than three weeks ago, in Frost and Feathers, I contemplated the struggle that Winter was facing in evicting Autumn from our garden in the Valley on The Mountain. The battle continues, with icy assaults shredding leaves on some of the most delicate plants, but Winter is now under attack from the other side, as Spring brings daffodil sunshine to many corners of the garden, and the first new shoots are opening on a nectarine tree that has not finished shedding last Summer's foilage.
Most of those old leaves are still verdant, as are the remnant leaves on the Chinese Elm out front, though the calendar says they should long ago have fallen. The secateurs are hard at work as I try to complete the pruning that normally might wait until mid August. The Honeyeaters are brightly coloured and loudly assertive in their territorial campaigns, and our Magpie landlords are flat out gathering nesting material. Yet there are still yellowing leaves on some of the Apple limbs for the Eastern Yellow Robins to imitate as they sit and watch for their next morsel to show itself.
Is it too early to venture a few bean seeds in the garden yet, or should I sow another row of peas?
Most of those old leaves are still verdant, as are the remnant leaves on the Chinese Elm out front, though the calendar says they should long ago have fallen. The secateurs are hard at work as I try to complete the pruning that normally might wait until mid August. The Honeyeaters are brightly coloured and loudly assertive in their territorial campaigns, and our Magpie landlords are flat out gathering nesting material. Yet there are still yellowing leaves on some of the Apple limbs for the Eastern Yellow Robins to imitate as they sit and watch for their next morsel to show itself.
Is it too early to venture a few bean seeds in the garden yet, or should I sow another row of peas?
Thursday, 26 July 2018
Question and Answer
Q: When can I call myself a writer?
A: When you pick up a pen and write?
It's a simple answer, but true - if you write, you are a writer - if you paint or draw or sculpt, you are an artist - if you fish, you are an angler.......
Perhaps the question was wrong? What many of us are actually asking is "When will I feel like I am a writer?"
For me, it is the moment when, after having performed my allotted labour with pen or keyboard - be it a set amount of time at my desk, or a set number of words on the page - I have moved on to some other task (cooking, gardening, cleaning, or even trying to go to sleep) only to find myself wanting to return to my desk and write down all the extra bits of plot and conversation that are now caroming round my skull, begging to be put on paper. Creating has ceased to be a struggle and has instead begun to flow.
Though most of us (especially we procrastinators) can find it painful to make that first pen stroke each day, there comes a moment when, after consecutive applications of self discipline have led to a growing body of work, we begin to develop a sense of achievement in our writing. It is not far from there to genuinely enjoying not only the results, but the process - then, though you have been a writer ever since you first put pen to paper, you begin to feel that you truly are one.
Savour the feeling, but don't rest on your laurels (they will only prickle your bum) - get back to that desk, notebook, keyboard, scrap of paper, or beer coaster, and write.
There will be other days when the distance from your lounge to your desk is so daunting that it might be measured in miles instead of meters, but call up that memory of creative joy and march once more into the fray.
A: When you pick up a pen and write?
It's a simple answer, but true - if you write, you are a writer - if you paint or draw or sculpt, you are an artist - if you fish, you are an angler.......
Perhaps the question was wrong? What many of us are actually asking is "When will I feel like I am a writer?"
For me, it is the moment when, after having performed my allotted labour with pen or keyboard - be it a set amount of time at my desk, or a set number of words on the page - I have moved on to some other task (cooking, gardening, cleaning, or even trying to go to sleep) only to find myself wanting to return to my desk and write down all the extra bits of plot and conversation that are now caroming round my skull, begging to be put on paper. Creating has ceased to be a struggle and has instead begun to flow.
Though most of us (especially we procrastinators) can find it painful to make that first pen stroke each day, there comes a moment when, after consecutive applications of self discipline have led to a growing body of work, we begin to develop a sense of achievement in our writing. It is not far from there to genuinely enjoying not only the results, but the process - then, though you have been a writer ever since you first put pen to paper, you begin to feel that you truly are one.
Savour the feeling, but don't rest on your laurels (they will only prickle your bum) - get back to that desk, notebook, keyboard, scrap of paper, or beer coaster, and write.
There will be other days when the distance from your lounge to your desk is so daunting that it might be measured in miles instead of meters, but call up that memory of creative joy and march once more into the fray.
Sunday, 22 July 2018
Mindless Creativity
Does anyone else find that it is during those mundane, often repetitive tasks - in my case, today, the slow, steady turning over of a fallow garden bed - that really interesting creative thoughts arise? And do you also find that by the time the allotted task has been completed, those thoughts have partially evaporated, like the memories that remain of most dreams after waking?
Why, someone asks, do you not record the thoughts on your mobile phone? Oh, if I had a dollar for everytime I've left that thing on the table or the sideboard, having intended only to be outside briefly.
My pen, pencil, and notepad are, of course, comfortably ensconced on the table in my study, awaiting my next session of writing - perhaps I should keep some by each door, to pick up and carry with me into the garden.
Today the journey began with a few steps through the back door to the veranda rail, to watch a wild, noisy game of tip being played by most of the tribe of grandchildren. A few more steps were taken across the deck to the lawn, to have a quiet word with one of the more rough and tumble individuals, and then, well, that fallow bed that I had forked over yesterday had come into view.
Situated with lines of sight across the back yard and a good part of the front, it seemed an ideal place to stand. I could work the loosened weeds free with the long handled claw, and be available for any unexpected (but ever possible) umpiring or first aid duties.
Working quietly but steadily along the bed, soaking up the warm sunshine, chatting with the robins and wrens and honeyeaters that flit about the turned soil seeking morsels to consume at the safety of the fence or a tree branch, checking the apple branches for any sign of budding, and the broccoli for any heads worth picking - all these things calm the mind. It is never long before the half formed ideas of previous writing or thinking sessions come back to the surface - and it is amazing how much of that material is now closer to fully formed.
But then the children all vanish - the noise is coming from somewhere out of sight. Of course - they are being packed into the cars of their respective parents, ready for the journey home. Farewells must be said, and missing shoes, jumpers, hats, and teddy bears rounded up, and all the while, those wonderful creative thoughts are slowly sinking back into the darkness from which they arose, quite forgotten by me - until later, when what remains is just enough to let me know I had something good in mind, but have lost it beyond retrieve.
What is the solution? I could drop the hoe or weeder and dash back inside to record those thoughts, but on a day like today, would most likely be derailed by other inquiries or assignments before reaching my desk. I am not good at carrying the mobile phone with me all the time, no matter how smart and useful it is supposed to be, and the same goes for pen and paper.
I sometimes wonder if I should keep one of those tourist "bum bags" on me at all times, with phone, house key, wallet, pencil, and notepad all within - and perhaps some small binoculars, and a camera, and, well, what else might came in unexpectedly handy? - but that seems so clunky and annoying, and is likely to be put down in the wrong spot and not found again until after a rainy spell. Any suggestions, anyone?
Why, someone asks, do you not record the thoughts on your mobile phone? Oh, if I had a dollar for everytime I've left that thing on the table or the sideboard, having intended only to be outside briefly.
My pen, pencil, and notepad are, of course, comfortably ensconced on the table in my study, awaiting my next session of writing - perhaps I should keep some by each door, to pick up and carry with me into the garden.
Today the journey began with a few steps through the back door to the veranda rail, to watch a wild, noisy game of tip being played by most of the tribe of grandchildren. A few more steps were taken across the deck to the lawn, to have a quiet word with one of the more rough and tumble individuals, and then, well, that fallow bed that I had forked over yesterday had come into view.
Situated with lines of sight across the back yard and a good part of the front, it seemed an ideal place to stand. I could work the loosened weeds free with the long handled claw, and be available for any unexpected (but ever possible) umpiring or first aid duties.
Working quietly but steadily along the bed, soaking up the warm sunshine, chatting with the robins and wrens and honeyeaters that flit about the turned soil seeking morsels to consume at the safety of the fence or a tree branch, checking the apple branches for any sign of budding, and the broccoli for any heads worth picking - all these things calm the mind. It is never long before the half formed ideas of previous writing or thinking sessions come back to the surface - and it is amazing how much of that material is now closer to fully formed.
But then the children all vanish - the noise is coming from somewhere out of sight. Of course - they are being packed into the cars of their respective parents, ready for the journey home. Farewells must be said, and missing shoes, jumpers, hats, and teddy bears rounded up, and all the while, those wonderful creative thoughts are slowly sinking back into the darkness from which they arose, quite forgotten by me - until later, when what remains is just enough to let me know I had something good in mind, but have lost it beyond retrieve.
What is the solution? I could drop the hoe or weeder and dash back inside to record those thoughts, but on a day like today, would most likely be derailed by other inquiries or assignments before reaching my desk. I am not good at carrying the mobile phone with me all the time, no matter how smart and useful it is supposed to be, and the same goes for pen and paper.
I sometimes wonder if I should keep one of those tourist "bum bags" on me at all times, with phone, house key, wallet, pencil, and notepad all within - and perhaps some small binoculars, and a camera, and, well, what else might came in unexpectedly handy? - but that seems so clunky and annoying, and is likely to be put down in the wrong spot and not found again until after a rainy spell. Any suggestions, anyone?
Friday, 20 July 2018
The Sad Irony of Evolution
The resilience of life can be quite amazing, as any gardener knows. Turn up a piece of ground and seedlings will appear everywhere - often of plants not seen in that space for many years, if ever. Turn over a garden bed thoroughly, two or three times, and still, just as your delicate brassica seedlings are appearing, all sorts of other sprouts will explode out of the ground and race skyward.
In the Blue Mountains there are plants that qualify as delicate elsewhere, but here, once entrenched in a garden, will never leave. Potatoes and strawberries in the vegetable garden, or violets in the shady corners, or buttercups anywhere, will seem to succumb to the hoe or spade, but, as soon as the gardener's back is turned, they will spring up again.
Bushwalkers can testify to the number of toppled trees, torn from their place by storms and tossed flat on the ground, that suddenly send up vertical shoots along their trunk to form a new grove - not to mention the vigour with which giant orb spiders will replace a massive web that was cleared from a walking track only the previous afternoon. Never walk away from the camp site without a torch, thinking that the track will remain clear once darkness falls.
Fragments of willow branches need only to land in a spot that will remain damp for a few weeks, and a new tree will soon be growing. Last year, Council inspected our neighbours across the creek and ordered the removal of a long clump of bamboo that grew along their bank. It was sad to see it go, as it screened part of our yard from view, gave us the feeling of living in a clearing in a rainforest, was a lovely windbreak, and provided safe haven to a family of black ducks as well as other birds.
The neighbours complied, and after the next rains, complied again - most of the bamboo has fallen to the repeated onslaughts of chainsaws, chippers, and spray, but even in this droughty, frosty winter, enough little shoots persevere to make me think that the bamboo is plotting its return. The bare ground, despite the amount of poison hurled at it, is being colonised anew by other species, too.
Likewise can the angler testify to the times when a fish is landed that has a great scar, or even a scalloped bite missing from part of its body, that has healed over - the fish having escaped a larger predator and continued on with its life. One eyed or one legged birds seem to keep up with the flock, spiders with fewer than eight legs continue to stalk their prey - life, as the man in the movie said, persists.
The persistence and resilience of life in the face of all sorts of hazards and assaults is a remarkable thing, and so it should disturb us all the more when we see species of any life form becoming extinct at the hands of our species. Life on this planet has pushed through, and flourished after, all sorts of catastrophes, from massive ice ages to enormous cometary impacts and their subsequent fire-storms.
It doesn't seem right that a complex web of life that has survived and recovered from everything the universe has thus far thrown at it might be failing at the hands of one of its own very prolific and resilient progeny - for if the web collapses, it is certain to take us down with it.
In the Blue Mountains there are plants that qualify as delicate elsewhere, but here, once entrenched in a garden, will never leave. Potatoes and strawberries in the vegetable garden, or violets in the shady corners, or buttercups anywhere, will seem to succumb to the hoe or spade, but, as soon as the gardener's back is turned, they will spring up again.
Bushwalkers can testify to the number of toppled trees, torn from their place by storms and tossed flat on the ground, that suddenly send up vertical shoots along their trunk to form a new grove - not to mention the vigour with which giant orb spiders will replace a massive web that was cleared from a walking track only the previous afternoon. Never walk away from the camp site without a torch, thinking that the track will remain clear once darkness falls.
Fragments of willow branches need only to land in a spot that will remain damp for a few weeks, and a new tree will soon be growing. Last year, Council inspected our neighbours across the creek and ordered the removal of a long clump of bamboo that grew along their bank. It was sad to see it go, as it screened part of our yard from view, gave us the feeling of living in a clearing in a rainforest, was a lovely windbreak, and provided safe haven to a family of black ducks as well as other birds.
The neighbours complied, and after the next rains, complied again - most of the bamboo has fallen to the repeated onslaughts of chainsaws, chippers, and spray, but even in this droughty, frosty winter, enough little shoots persevere to make me think that the bamboo is plotting its return. The bare ground, despite the amount of poison hurled at it, is being colonised anew by other species, too.
Likewise can the angler testify to the times when a fish is landed that has a great scar, or even a scalloped bite missing from part of its body, that has healed over - the fish having escaped a larger predator and continued on with its life. One eyed or one legged birds seem to keep up with the flock, spiders with fewer than eight legs continue to stalk their prey - life, as the man in the movie said, persists.
The persistence and resilience of life in the face of all sorts of hazards and assaults is a remarkable thing, and so it should disturb us all the more when we see species of any life form becoming extinct at the hands of our species. Life on this planet has pushed through, and flourished after, all sorts of catastrophes, from massive ice ages to enormous cometary impacts and their subsequent fire-storms.
It doesn't seem right that a complex web of life that has survived and recovered from everything the universe has thus far thrown at it might be failing at the hands of one of its own very prolific and resilient progeny - for if the web collapses, it is certain to take us down with it.
Tuesday, 17 July 2018
Elderberry Blues
My gardening history is littered with "it seemed like a good idea at the time" moments - one of those is the Elderberry I bought as a tiny green sprig in a 6 inch pot, five years ago at a regular Leura School Market Day.
I'm not sure what I was thinking at the time - was I contemplating some herbal use of its flowers or berries, perhaps? Was it nostalgia for something that had grown in other gardens I had known, decades before, such as the family farm, or my grandfather's place? Or was it simply the idea of those lovely, creamy, bee-filled, elderflower panicles?
Where ever there is a bright spot, there are likely to be shadows nearby - elderberry may look good above the ground, but beneath...... that is a different matter. While the brittle branches slowly spread out to display their delicate leaves and lacework flower clusters, just below the mulch and soil, a vast net of rubbery tentacles is reaching out far beyond the dripline of the parent tree, seeking dominion over all the garden.
It is only when you disturb the ground around other plants, many meters away, that you discover how far elderberry roots reach out from the trunk, and how easily new trees spring up if any of those roots are in any way nicked or cut.
As I contemplate the effort that may be needed to eliminate the tree and all its suckers, I suddenly feel a tiny inkling of what some of the early Britons felt when they realised that the Saxons they had foolishly invited to their island had no intention of leaving.
I'm not sure what I was thinking at the time - was I contemplating some herbal use of its flowers or berries, perhaps? Was it nostalgia for something that had grown in other gardens I had known, decades before, such as the family farm, or my grandfather's place? Or was it simply the idea of those lovely, creamy, bee-filled, elderflower panicles?
Where ever there is a bright spot, there are likely to be shadows nearby - elderberry may look good above the ground, but beneath...... that is a different matter. While the brittle branches slowly spread out to display their delicate leaves and lacework flower clusters, just below the mulch and soil, a vast net of rubbery tentacles is reaching out far beyond the dripline of the parent tree, seeking dominion over all the garden.
It is only when you disturb the ground around other plants, many meters away, that you discover how far elderberry roots reach out from the trunk, and how easily new trees spring up if any of those roots are in any way nicked or cut.
As I contemplate the effort that may be needed to eliminate the tree and all its suckers, I suddenly feel a tiny inkling of what some of the early Britons felt when they realised that the Saxons they had foolishly invited to their island had no intention of leaving.
Sunday, 15 July 2018
Heard while writing
A meeting of our little writing group, held in a lovely house at the head of a gully, halfway up The Mountains, led us down some interesting paths - as it always does. One of those roads less travelled, for me, at least, is poetry. Try as I might, it nearly always stumps me.
One of our group, though, brought with her the idea of black-out poetry. An interesting term, when you haven't heard it before, and one that left me wondering where we were about to go.
A simple enough idea, once she had explained it to us - it was, after my initial reservations, a lot of fun. The idea is to take a page from a paper or magazine and go through it searching for words that might form a poem. Use a marker pen to cross out all the unwated words, and see what is left.
I got the TV guide, and this is what happened.....
One of our group, though, brought with her the idea of black-out poetry. An interesting term, when you haven't heard it before, and one that left me wondering where we were about to go.
A simple enough idea, once she had explained it to us - it was, after my initial reservations, a lot of fun. The idea is to take a page from a paper or magazine and go through it searching for words that might form a poem. Use a marker pen to cross out all the unwated words, and see what is left.
I got the TV guide, and this is what happened.....
The long
dark shadow
imposing a
power pendulum
Creating
opportunities
excites old
powers
and the
truth
projects my
characters abroad
A huge
paradigm shift
provides
intrigue
gender bias
reflects the
other
Does it mean anything? Read in the right tone of voice, it sounds like it could. One of our group produced a short piece of prose using more or less the same method. Once again, by constraining ourselves, we open up new pathways. The fascinating thing is that once this prompt got me started, I found myself willing to dash out more bits of poetic whimsy. At least, it could be poetry - only the experts could say for sure, and I ain't no expert in the field of poetry.
However, here is an aural representation of our afternoon together.
AT WRITERS GROUP
When the magpies and
squabbling rosellas
have gone,
for now
The creak and scratch
of pen and paper
is all the sound
I hear
But listen – just then
the fireplace creaked
A distant dinosaur
growls its diesel roar
Small feathered bells tumble
through shadowed leaves
A page turns
A writer sighs
Outside a crow
calls the falling sun
The fridge
hums back to life
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)