Recharging – working hard while taking a break

I’ve just had a week’s break.

Annual leave is a beautiful thing, an upside to having my day job. That’s something I need to remember when I’m railing against my workday routine of 9-5 (so to speak).

Earlier this year, I was fretting that I wouldn’t be able to string the days together and dedicate a week to relaxing. There is always so much to be done.

What I needed to do was just book the time.

My initial plan was to have at least a few days without technology. No phone, no tablet, no laptop.

Hilarious. There’s a reason my family has called me ‘Techno Jo’ from time to time.* I love my various screens and devices. I’m considering a formal retreat where I’ll need to leave all the technology at the door.

A while ago, I used to do that myself. Regularly. All the technology in a room, on silent. The door shut, phone unplugged. I’d send a clear message to family and friends ahead of time that I would be unable to be contacted while I was on retreat.

The retreats featured meditation and writing. They were blissfully refreshing. I was disciplined and invariably productive, but this wasn’t the week for that sort of discipline. I had some loosely defined goals.

Assessing the break

There were a few things I didn’t manage to do:

Go away for a couple of days. The thought of packing, then of unpacking. To go, then to come back. I couldn’t rise to it.
Keep away from work emails and phone calls. I made it through to around half past three on Monday. Eventually, I stopped checking in. Switching off is a challenge!
Catch up with the housework. I did some but not all the ‘autumn cleaning’ I’d planned. It would have been good to do more, but not essential.

Not managing to meet those three goals wasn’t disastrous. I had a wonderful week. It was busy but the pacing was manageable.

I shouldn’t be surprised that when I’m taking time to do things I love – with people I love – that I will simply feel energised.

Some of the things I did manage to accomplish include:

Enjoy a couple of lazy mornings. I switched the alarm off but I woke up at my normal time but pottered about. I’m always fascinated by how easy it is to wake up while I’m on holiday. There was time for meditations and journal writing.
Catch up with friends. Relaxing conversations with minimal distractions are a luxury. I was blessed to have time to catch up with some of my favourite people over leisurely cups of tea and chatty lunches.
Make the most of being able to be on campus. I made it to a couple of presentations. There was time for work on my thesis. I spent quality time with The Wife of Bath and Foucault. I sat out on the lawn and made friends with one of the peacocks. (Ok, friends is probably stretching it. He was hoping I had treats. I didn’t, he left.) I hung out.
Take in some of the wonderful events happening in Perth. The PIAF film season is in its last weeks. I made it to Rams (Grímur Hákonarson, 2015) at the Somerville on Monday. It was a hideous day in Perth (it was still about 37 at 6.30 in the evening). The film is set in Iceland and looks cold. There was a summer thunder storm with flashes of lightning behind the screen and minimal rain and made a nice contrast. Later in the week, I made it to Sculptures by the Sea on a hot day and then on a cooler, overcast day.
Do some writing. This was where my week really shone. There was some work for uni. I went to a blogging workshop with Amanda Kendle, which is always a joy! Her travel blog, Not a Ballerina, is full of adventures and great tips. Inspired by the workshop I curated content, I finished a late post. I also kept up with the journalling. I wrote four poems (and tinkered with five or six others).

Somerville after a hot day — A clear sky before the clouds

Learning from the break

I was well overdue for a decent break when this week rolled around. What I needed wasn’t necessarily a week of doing nothing. But a week which featured creativity and friends was magic.

I didn’t get to spend time with the ‘to read’ pile teetering on my nightstand, but I have plans for that in the next few weeks.

Cottesloe on a calm day — Blissfully calm

*They also call me ‘Unco Jo’ because of my decided lack of coordination. There are worse names than these, I guess.

Poetry in film – February – O Brother, Where Art Thou?

Yes. I know. It’s March. What happened to February? I still can’t believe it’s gone.

My plan for February was to watch O Brother, Where Art Thou? by the Coen brothers. The DVD is ready and waiting on a shelf I pass multiple times a day. It’s at eye level and I look at it each time I pass by. I just haven’t been able to watch it.

Despite that, the film and its distant, loose connections to The Odyssey have been on my mind.

In the meantime, my real purpose in this ‘poetry in film’ project (which sounds so much better than distraction, tangent, avoidance strategy …) was to think about the poems. There should be time for the film over the Easter break but I’m going to jump ahead and riff a bit about the poem now.

A late arrival

I came to The Odyssey late. I dipped into it as necessary when I was an undergrad. I watched friends work with it as part of their studies of Ancient Greek. I wished I could fit Ancient Greek into my own program. I couldn’t. I let it go.

I have fond memories of Sunday mornings in the ’90s watching Tony Robinson’s Odysseus, The Greatest Hero of Them All. I loved that. Robinson’s storytelling on windswept beaches and that great grey coat (and was there a red scarf? a pinkish one?) has stayed with me. Rik Mayall’s Grim Tales was also part of my television viewing at this time. I remember there was cracking storytelling from both Robinson and Mayall.

From time to time there were brief excursions into episodes along the way. Links to a short story here, a conversation about Homer/epic poetry/oral traditions there. It would come up – as you’d expect – in discussions about the hero’s journey and archetypes.

I didn’t read the poem in full until I was in my thirties. I still haven’t learnt any Ancient Greek* so I read it in translation – a Penguin Classics edition by E. V. Rieu, D. C. H. Rieu and Peter Jones and the Robert Fagles translation that I’ve realised is missing from my bookshelf and will need to be replaced. (Yay for shiny new copies!)

I read the Rieu et al version at the height of summer, stretched out on the floor very close to a fan. It was perfect reading for ridiculously hot days that stretched into hideously hot weeks.

I loved the unevenness of the narrative line. When I finished The Odyssey I jumped straight to The Iliad. It was that sort of summer.

poetry in film check in february book pile — Ready and waiting

A recent encounter

In the past few months, The Odyssey has been popping up. It could be I’m noticing it because I knew I would be thinking about it as part of the schedule I set myself. One of those, I just bought a red car, now all I notice is red cars scenarios.

The most striking encounter was when I caught The Epic (Finn O’Branagain and Scott Sandwich) as part of this year’s Perth Fringe Festival. That was an hour of whirlwind storytelling that looked at some of the ‘big’ stories from across the world over history. The show included a captivating demonstration of the ripples of the story that continue to be felt. (I won’t go into detail because I’d hate to spoil it for you if you ever get to see it. You never know…)

I had gone to the show because I thought there was a bit about Macbeth (there wasn’t). The Odyssey turning up was a timely bonus.

The Muse and magic

The Odyssey opens with an invocation to the Muse. As it’s an epic poem, I’m guessing that is Calliope. The invocation rests in ritual and the sacred. It also makes sense for the poem as a spoken performance. It not only calls the muse but captures the audience.

The telling of the story begins with an incantation.

Perfect. So much of storytelling is weaving a spell. I love that drawing in – and being drawn in. There is also the appeal of an external (or it could be internal) driver.

The invocations in Homer’s The Odyssey, its companion The Iliad, Virgil’s The Aeneid and in later poems such as John Milton’s Paradise Lost and, with a slightly different purpose, Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene offer up the poem as something not only created but inspired.

The lit-nerd in me quite likes the idea of reading just the invocations and doing a formal comparison of what they seek and what they offer.

There are all sorts of arguments against inspiration and for the hard graft of day in-day out work, but there’s a part of me that loves the idea of an otherworldly – if not divine (and these days I’m more atheist than agnostic …) – spark as the impetus of a work.

Why not begin with an invocation to a muse, human, divine or otherwise?

*One day I hope to read it in the Ancient Greek. For now, though, translations have to do. After this thesis is done. Latin has a higher priority. And Middle English, for that matter. I’ll be in my 50s. Excuse me while I process that …

A singing bird – reading leads to writing which leads to reading

Despite the best of intentions, I’ve strayed from the routine I’ve been nurturing. Actually, I did so intentionally. I have been wilful and made a fully intentional detour.

After all, life has to happen like that sometimes.

My life does, at least.

It only becomes an issue when the detour needs to come to an end. That’s where the best of intentions come into play. Detours and diversions can be so (let’s be honest) seductive.

This is a recurrent theme in my reflections. What I’ve realised is that I’ve arrived at a point where I need to take time to do what gives me joy if I’m going to stay focused on the other things. There might be joy in them, the other things, but … sometimes I need to be sure of some respite.

There is a Chinese proverb that I have always loved: Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come.

I always think of the bird as joy and creative energy.

The joy of reading

Most of my life – day job, study, recreational time – revolves around words. As a rule, that works for me. I love what I do. Mostly.

There a moments, though, when my heart sinks. Just a little.

Another discussion about Oxford commas, anyone?

But words and everything that goes along with them are what makes my heart sing. Reading and books, word games and word play have been at the centre of my world. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t a reader.

I’ve always loved putting words together. In my head if there’s been no paper or, in those early years of school – it was that long ago, a slate.

My great-grandmother, Old Nan, was legendary for wanting to read everything. She was voracious. I didn’t know her for very long. She was 97 when she died and I’m not sure I was even at school. But the memory of her – of her reading, along with the family stories – has stuck.
When my dad accidentally caught my arm with a cigarette as we walked along a crowded street he consoled me (not only by obviously being devastated that it had happened) with a wonderful book of poetry.* I remember choosing the book from the shelf in the bookshop, the shape of first poem (even though the exact words escape me now) and its illustration. It was about looking into a fire and seeing fairies dancing. I read and read that book. I loved it.
My prized possession as a child, lost when I left home, was a book of fairy tales. Each story had one illustration. The only story I didn’t read – because the picture featured a man pinned to a tree by a snake – was ‘Sinbad the Sailor’. The others I pretty much knew by heart.

So, I’ve always been a reader. Words have always been my thing.

I don’t have time for a bookclub and my solution is time out for a sizable detour. It’s an indulgence, if I’m to be honest, especially as far as time goes: the Perth Writers Festival.

Three days of listening to writers and readers. Three days of catching up with friends, some of whom I hardly ever see these days. With some it was a quick chat in queues – or in passing as we crossed paths in the race to the next session – and with others it was a lunch and conversations that peeled away the years in between meetings.

They were three days of knowing there was other stuff I should be doing but that I was doing what I needed to be doing.

I imagine this also explains why I went to PWF16 with a plan to attend poetry events and sessions but kept finding myself listening to people talk about writing crime stories.

Start of Australian Poets Festival: 9x5 The Big Read WA Poetry — Standing room only

I went to sessions that were packed. There was standing room only for some.

I caught some spoken word sessions that made my heart sing. I’ve heard about Barefaced Stories, so that session on the Friday night was always on my horizon. Sketch the Rhyme – freestyle rap meets Pictionary … What’s not to love?

Joy and effervescence

Amongst it all, I have made progress with my thesis.

I have clarified what I think needs to change with the shape and direction.

Reshaping the project continues to be confronting. That’s obviously the point. If I didn’t need to respond and make changes, I think pursuing the topic would be an empty activity. The changes come from making discoveries and deepening understandings.

It comes down to the words and, to be honest, the chase. Hunting down ideas is part of the game. It’s what I love about the process.

Along the way, I’m hoping to be more balanced and remember that joy in being a reader and a writer. It is being a reader and a writer that brought me to the project. I am staying alert to moments that fizz because ideas work and words are right.

I’m hoping for some of those moments while I’m drafting the next chapter and making ongoing revisions.

A moderate haul from the bookshop at the Perth Writers Festival 2016 — In the wings

*I suspect I only felt its heat, not an actual burn. There was probably no real need for consolation…

Paper trails, paper trials – a meditation on why notebooks are important

Summer has been an on-again, off-again affair so far and now Perth is at the start of a heatwave. In these past couple of days, I feel I’ve been crisping and melting by turns.

The blessing of hot days in Perth is the sea breeze that tends to arrive in the afternoon. The heat doesn’t always seep away with nightfall, but days often end with some relief. On Friday evening there was time with family by the river with the bonus of dolphins. This morning I planted myself in front of a fan while I sorted papers and the general clutter of desks.

Colours and patterns

While I was sticking close to the fan I took some time out to do some colouring in. This might seem like a small thing. Kids colour in. How hard can it be?

The current craze with adult colouring in promotes the potential for colouring in to promote mindfulness, to be meditative. I have a chequered history with colouring in. I’m not sure how relaxing it is.

I remember being in Year 1 and the first line of most pages being given over to making patterns. I wanted my workbooks to be beautiful, my patterns to be perfect. Spiral after spiral, mountains and arrows, patterns that repeated and were expected to be even before being coloured in after the work was done. The teacher in me understands the point of hand-eye coordination and spatial awareness. The residual five-year-old me remembers stress.

In Year 2 there was some sort of an issue with my handwriting. The solution? The teacher recommended colouring in. My mum got hold of a roll of pages for a colouring book. The same set of images, repeated. I can still see the mushroom house I dutifully coloured … and coloured and coloured. In the end I walked away with quite nice handwriting. Looking at my recent efforts with coloured pencils, I see I need to work on pressure and control.

I’m finding colouring in has its stresses. I’m working on breathing through the scrappy bits and where I’ve misunderstood the patterns. With summer raging outside, I’m trying to use colouring in to engage with the same sort of processing that can happen on a walk when my thinking has become stuck. Colouring in is cooler than a walk but I don’t think it is as ‘cleansing’.

Paper nests

Part of my reason for anchoring myself to the paperwork at home this morning is my search for a scrap of paper. Not really a scrap. It is a double page from an exercise book I had folded to be quite small. You can fold a sheet of paper seven times? I think I went with six.

Six, seven. Whatever. The page is now quite small and, now, lost. I suspect forever.

Pieces of paper come and go. I try not to be wasteful but I admit I sometimes quietly apologise to trees; there are days when I think it is probably best not to sit under one. I was thinking about this as I worked through what could be recycled, what could be composted and what needed to be filed.

All the while, I was looking for my scrap. Why? I gave myself an hour for poetry on the recent public holiday I sketched out seven (and a half) poems, four of which made it into my computer. I know there were seven (and a half) because I made a note on Facebook. The poems are on the scrap of paper. They’re nowhere near finished but I was happy with them as a start.

I took a photo of the front of the page. I had used a mechanical pencil with a fine lead and enjoyed shaping the letters on the page. The poems sat in boxed off blocks and snaked around the page when I ran out of space. The image was too sharp. I didn’t want anyone to read the poems in their rough form if I posted the photo so I deleted it and took another with a deliberate blur. This was, obviously, a foolish move.* I can make out most of what is on the page but I’m struggling to remember what was on the back of the sheet. I know that what you can’t see always seems better than it was in reality. I have pieced together bits and pieces but I’ve missed something. It might come back to me.

It’s the same with writing for uni. I keep everything in notebooks and in my computer. I love sticky notes because they tend to be hard to lose. I avoid loose pages, but it can be tempting to grab a clean sheet and start writing. I spend my days surrounded by paper. The pages pile up. I think of them as a nest for ideas. Page after page in a type of feathering the nest with multiple versions of drafts as I work out what I really want to say about my topic … and when to say it.

Peacock tail feather resting in front of desk — A writing nest

I share my uni desk with another part-time student. I suspect the scrap would have been safe if I’d left it on that desk.

*It was also unnecessary. I didn’t end up posting the photo.

Between the lines – taking a break to be able to read and write more

This has been a better week. Taking some time out last week was well worth it. I’ll admit to still being tired but not like I was last week. I was, to be frank, wiped out by the time the weekend came around.

This week has been slow but I’ve been more productive. I had a particularly good night of revising the draft of my introduction on Thursday. For a while in the mid to late afternoon I was worried I might not settle to the page and then, in a rush, I did. It was great.

I must get back to that page soon because there is still a (frightening) lot of work to do. However, in the spirit of recognising that I’ve been pushing too hard for too long, I took Friday night off to catch up with a friend and take in a movie.

We saw The Brand New Testament (Jaco Van Dormael, 2015) at Somerville. I enjoyed the movie. It featured a misanthropic God, his downtrodden wife and his daughter who dreams of a kinder world. It was irreverent, surreal and thoroughly enjoyable.

Somerville and tea

I suspect that I’ve mentioned the Somerville before. If you don’t know Perth (and as I’ve found out recently, even if you do) you might not have heard of the Somerville. It is an outdoor cinema at UWA. The Perth International Arts Festival presents a season of films there (and at the Pines at ECU) every summer.

Going to the Somerville is always lovely. Even on the nights when the films are not particularly to my taste.*

An outside movie on a balmy summer evening in the company of good friends goes a long way towards giving me joy. On evenings when I choose to go alone, I find it is a great place for reflection, getting some notes on the page and then having some time out. Because I know the time out is definitely coming I end up staying on-task pretty well.

The Somerville was packed, brimming with happy movie goers enjoying a picnic ahead of the screening. (And some who were not so happy because finding a seat – even on the grass – got to be a challenge.)

The resident kookaburras were also happy. The picnics made for a delightful smörgåsbord that they couldn’t resist. The murmur of hundreds of picnickers chatting over their dinners was punctuated by laughter and the occasional scream as morsels were snatched from forks. It seems that food being between plate and mouth makes for an easier target.

So long as you weren’t one of the ‘swooped’, the swooping made for some light entertainment. (I should note that this activity is not limited to the Somerville and the ‘burras make good use of the outside dining at other places on campus.)

Two kookaburras at the Somerville — Plotting the next heist

Kookaburra perched on lighting rig at Somerville — All he surveys

There has also been some pretty serious café writing with many pots of tea and the occasional LLB.

This weekend alone has featured Bread in Common, Natural Light Photography Gallery Café, Matilda Bay Tea Rooms (which may have changed name…) and Little Way. There was Tiamo as well as the UWA Club during the week … I don’t know what it is about writing in cafés but it really does work for me. A lot.

The promise of reading

Progress towards the revisions has meant that there wasn’t the reading that I had been doing last week. That aside, there was a moment when a colleague asked me about what I had been reading and I was excited to be able to reel of the titles of not one but two books-for-fun and have a quick chat in the tea room.

It had been too long since I’d been able to pull a couple of purely recreational titles out and talk about being a reader.

I also caught Spare Parts Puppet Theatre‘s version of Margaret Wild’s Miss Lily’s Fabulous Feather Boa. that gave me a chance to talk a picture books, reading AND puppets with some of my favourite young people. All of which was joyous.

I’m not sure what I’m going to read this week. With the Perth Writers’ Festival – and its attendant flurry of book purchases – on the horizon I expect I should prioritise one of last year’s purchases that I haven’t quite made it to yet. Due to my appalling lack of control in such bookshopping situations, I have a fair selection from which to choose.

I’m deliberately scheduling some reading-for-fun as part of my conscious carving up of time. (It ties into one of those beautiful planning sheets I am so fond of.)

There is also some more Keats to read this week. I’ve been dipping in and out of his work since watching Bright Star. I haven’t quite fallen in love with him yet. Perhaps that will come. I’ll let you know next time we meet.

There is also a book about sorting through clutter. For now, I’m going to head to my (blissfully air-conditioned) desk at uni and the delights of connecting Derrida and Foucault, et al with medieval fashion and gender studies. I am loving this part of the work but I need to get it done and move on soon.

OWC Poetical Works of John Keats and Banish Clutter Forever by Sheila Chandra — On my list for this week

*I found Zentropa (Lars von Trier, 1991) harrowing, for example, but it was still a great night. A Mongolian Tale (Fei Xie, 1996) and Departures (Yôjirô Takita, 2008) are among my all time favourites.

The long and the short of it – the usefulness of short poetry forms

When the idea of writing overwhelms me, I remember the beauty of short forms. There’s a part of me that sometimes feels a bit guilty when I do this. Why? It is not as though short forms are cheating.

Putting aside the novels I’ve started and left fallow, the 80 000 – 100 000 word thesis I’m working on sometimes freaks me out. It is not because of the word count but the need for cohesion. The pressure for coherence bears down. Faced with pages of notes and (some rather beautiful) planning sheets I still find myself beset by questions such as ‘can I sustain a sensible argument?’

Now that I’ve worked my way through the first 10 000 words – which I suspect will end up as somewhere more like 5000–7500 by the time I get to the next incarnation of that chapter – I’m feeling more confident that I know what my argument is. Or, at least, what I believe it is going to be so long as I can come up with the evidence to support it.

Short forms

A lot of my writing is image based. This works well for me when I’m working with short poetry forms. I like the way these forms call for a compression of language. Haiku, tanka, cinquains, Ezra Pound couplets are among my favourites. The constraints that short forms impose are comforting.

The example of Pound’s use of the form that comes most readily to mind is probably ‘In a Station of the Metro‘.* I find Pound’s juxtaposition of the human/metropolitan with nature works beautifully. Those two lines do a lot of heavy lifting.

Ages ago – the century was still fresh – I spent some time purposefully working with short forms. They fitted well into my routine. There were one or two poems from that period that I quite liked. One was based on the structure suggested by Ezra Pound couplets…

By the Pound

Red cherries in rich globular pairs;
Words arranged in tight bundles.
Lovers entwined on the river bank;
Images wrought with measured breath.

It isn’t just the poem I’ve been reflecting on but how I was able to fit writing into a crowded schedule. Among the short pieces – which helped keep me focused – were some extended pieces, mostly short stories, that were cohesive (even if not always coherent…I need to remember that I might achieve one without the other). Writing fed into writing that fed into more writing. It was a case of filling the well to be able to draw from it.

The bigger project

For the past few weeks I’ve been revising the draft of Chapter 1. I’ve also been reworking the (beautiful) plan I had drawn up for the shape of the whole thesis. My ‘super symmetrical structure’ has shown itself to be nothing but a dream. The whole approach has changed, too. I should also be well into the second chapter. I’m not.

Looking back over the work I handed in I can’t help but see that I need to be careful with how I use images. Perhaps I shouldn’t be using images at all. I know I can’t mix metaphors in the writing (which I have done terribly in a couple of past essays…) but I do want to use some images in the course of the discussion. I like writing with images but I need to keep them sharp, especially in the context of academic prose.

The discipline of short forms needs to come into play in my extended pieces of writing. While aiming for the 80 000 words, I need to keep control. The language needs to be compressed, ideas well focused. Images might help express the ideas. While it could be fun, it is probably not appropriate to slip a haiku or an Ezra Pound couplet masquerading as prose into analysis and commentary.

Not only do I need to be making use of the discipline of short forms, I think I should be working with them. I have three reasons for this:

I need to working on practicing concise language and compressed images.
It is good to have a routine (and expectation) of producing contained objects.
I find short forms can be effective memory keys.

Fresh cherries in a bowl — Sweet cherry pairs

The plan evolves

I think there is space to integrate short forms into my daily practice. Not as an add-on but as a part of the work that I’m already doing. Page after page of bullet points and flow charts have not been working that well for me. A few haiku and cinquains might be just the ticket. They can unlock all sorts of emotions and ideas in ways that are much more effective (for me) than straight notes.

Notemaking just got a whole lot more creative, and fun!

*I have no idea of whether he thought specifically of these as a form, and that’s a research rabbit hole I’ve no intention of tumbling down. I must not tumble down that rabbit hole…

Another new beginning – thinking about what I want to write

I saw in the New Year watching Bright Star (Jane Campion, 2009), one of my favourite films. It was a quiet start to the year but I have to say I was more than happy to end 2015 calmly and ease my way into 2016. 2015 was relentlessly busy. There was so much thinking to be done, so much musing, I could have been thinking out loud on this blog a lot. But I kept thinking the better of it. The result? Just the one post for 2015. There were many words elsewhere and along the way but I found it hard to commit to them.

Something of a love affair

Perhaps ‘affair’ is not the right word. It was more a love-hate scenario, I’m afraid. I found myself really quite liking the delete button on my keyboard. I spent more time that I ought to have communing with the delete button. Not just the delete button, I’m afraid. There were also untold numbers of erasers (I started writing in pencil specifically so I could rub words out), shredders and wild ripping of pages in half and then half again. … Not a lot of what I wrote in 2015 survived.

There was writing for work, of course. I’m not thinking about that. The main issue was writing for uni. That was fraught, more so than I expected. I danced about my ideas for everything, finding it all frustrating and didn’t really want to bring that to this space. I’m only bringing it up now because I’m in the process of regrouping and making some plans for changes.

This is not just about the New Year

I’m not just posting this today because of it being 1 January. That is a nice coincidence. Today also happens to be a day that I have taken off. I wasn’t going to. I had planned to head to uni and get some work done. In the end, I just couldn’t resist. A day off is golden, such a beautiful thing and I’ve fallen into the trap of the public holiday. They can be so alluring, so glamorous – in its archaic sense of casting a spell.

Ensnared I may be but I’m pleased that I have not frittered the day away. I’ve pottered about in my study which is not before time. As I tend to race in and out there is a lot of ‘sorting my environment’ to be done. Filing and cataloguing books and DVDs are tasks that I know should be routine but … Let’s just say it is good to have dealt with a couple of the piles that were teetering precariously. I’ve been able to tick off a few jobs and tomorrow beckons as a productive day back at my desk. Yay. Seriously.

Refreshing this blog has been on my list of things to do for months. Some of the planning I did for the 2015 revamp that never happened is sitting nicely in a file, ready to go. I sketched out a project last night for the year ahead.

The plan – as it stands at the moment

I acknowledge it is possible that I don’t need another project. I’ve just handed the first 10 000 or so words of my thesis and they need to be radically reworked before I head into the next chapter I’m writing. I’m looking at it more as a recreational pursuit. It is sort of ‘studyish’ but also my kind of fun … Have I mentioned before that I’m a bit of a nerd? I am.

I’ve started the year with Bright Star. I’m thinking it would be nice to watch a film that links to poem on a regular basis. Read the poem – watch the film – engage in some related (but not too much) associated readings – write about it a bit. As I’ve already indicated, I know this is my sort of fun and certainly not for everyone. I haven’t sourced copies of all the films yet so there might need to be changes. I also don’t know how I’m going to go for time. That said, here’s my list so far. You may notice I’ve gone for an eclectic mix and am open to versions that received less than glowing reviews…

January Bright Star (Jane Campion, 2009)
February O Brother, Where Art Thou? (Joel and Ethan Coen, 2000)
March Jabberwocky (Terry Gilliam, 1977)
April The Raven (I’m not sure which version … Charles Brabin, 1915; Louis Friedlander, 1935; Roger Corman, 1963; James McTeigue, 2012?)
May Howl (Rob Epstein & Jeffrey Friedman, 2010)
June Lady Lazarus (Sandra Lahire, 1991)
July Winter Days (Kihachirō Kawamoto, 2003)
August Beowulf (Robert Zemeckis, 2007)
September Beowulf and Grendel (Sturla Gunnarsson, 2005)
October Under Milkwood (Andrew Sinclair, 1972 … or, Kevin Allen, 2015?)
November The Nightmare Before Christmas (Tim Burton, 1993)
December How the Grinch Stole Christmas (Ron Howard, 2000)

My year is packed already but I’m looking forward to knowing there is poetry on my horizon.

Back on board – thinking planning for writing

Hey there. It’s been a while. Longer than I expected. I meant to check in with a seasonal greeting weeks ago. It was part of my all-planned-and-ready-to-go list…and I missed it. Now the news shows that the world is bruised and anxious. I know our challenges and sorrows don’t just stop because a calendar ticks over. Even so, the New Year is a marker that reminds us that we can begin again. I hope it’s not too late to hope for good things and to share compliments of the season and best wishes for the year ahead.

I hope the year improves for everyone. I hope 2015 treats you well. I wish you and your loved ones all the best.

Lime tree dressed for Christmas — Bright and shiny

Wrapping up 2014

Like a lot of people, I find myself frantic in December. Fortunately, my family has been taking a calmer, more measured approach to the festive season in recent times. We haven’t quite gotten it down to brown paper packages yet, but we’re on our way.

Simplifying the festivities makes everything easier to deal with.

It also happens that I have a December birthday. It tends to get lost in the lead up to the 25th, which is ok. I keep the celebrations low key. I may have indicated before that I find birthdays a good time for personal reflection. Dinners and cake and the like are a bonus. I’m a fan of a bit of quiet time with a few special people. On this last birthday, I was in Melbourne with a friend for her graduation and we didn’t quite manage cake that day. (I must hasten to add that there was cake later in the week. It was exquisite.) Did I mention I was going to Melbourne? I don’t think I did. I should have. I love Melbourne. Really. It’s one of those places that feels right.* I meant to post once or twice while I was there. I wandered around the CBD snapping the occasional photo and ducking into cafes to jot down ideas. I made some plans but, in the end, I couldn’t settle to commit myself to drafting out the content. I find committing to the page can be tricky.

Breathe

The hiatus of the past six weeks hasn’t just been because of the festive season and jaunting about the place. I also really just needed a break. I’ve had ‘bigger’ years than 2014. I’ve certainly had more traumatic years that the last turned out to be. Despite that, I found that I really needed to stop. I was so tired by the time I got on the plane to go to Melbourne I was barely lucid. While I was away I played with some writing in fits and starts. It’s not the writing I expected to do but I hope it will be useful at some point. Most of all, it was good to take some time to just breathe. That said, it was hard to switch off. I am hopeless when it comes to checking work emails, for example. Even on holiday on the other side of the country I was trying to take photos on my phone in between checking emails and responding to meeting requests… Hopeless. One of the things I love about Melbourne is that walking is such a good option. It is true that I kept finding myself walking to bookshops and the State Library but I’m ok with that!

La Trobe Reading Room at State Library of Victoria — Light and air

Libraries and bookshops are important elements in holidays in my world. I spent some time being very happy near the poetry shelves in the La Trobe Reading Room at the State Library of Victoria. There were familiar volumes just nearby. It was a calm, beautiful space. I had looked forward to my time there for weeks before arriving. What more could I want? I could have spent more time just hanging out in the reading room. In the end, I was lured outside by the promise of independent bookstores and the temptation of a possible return to coffee.** As far as weaknesses go, I don’t think I’m doing too badly.

Hitting the books

Obviously, I can only imagine what the year 2015 has in store. I’m still working on setting some goals for myself. There’s plenty to be done, as always, with the day-job (I have a new contract, by the way…yay!) and family. I also have plans – big plans – for writing and for reading. There will be more writing. There will be more reading. I’m sure I can work it in to the schedule I’ve drawn up. Books feature everywhere I look, to be honest. To start with, I’ve been working on sorting my home library over the past week or so. I’ve become quite adept at assembling flat pack furniture in the past few years. Now I’m trying to work out how to arrange books on the new shelves. It is taking longer than I hoped and has become something of a mission.

It probably shouldn’t be as hard as it is turning out to be. I’m probably over-thinking the question of where to put particular texts.

Certainly, I know that there is plenty of study to be done in 2015. I finally made it back to the library at uni today. It felt like it had been closed for ages. It hasn’t. It was only for a few weeks and I could have gone earlier this week but…other things, other plans, various responsibilities, the (wow, wasn’t that a good one!) Big Bash League Perth Scorchers v Brisbane Heat game on Thursday… TODAY was LIBRARY day.

View of UWA Arts building weather vane — In the bright quiet

The day dawned bright and sunny (then, again, every day in Perth seems to dawn bright and sunny at the moment…summer tends to come across as relentless…). Packing my bag for the day (afternoon, in fact, because it is still vacation and the library opening hours are limited) was a joy. It felt good to be back. There was hardly anyone around and the library was quiet. I found some material that I think will be useful. I even managed to stay focused on the list I’d prepared. Is it just me that finds tangents tempting when the catalogue just unfurls with the flick of a switch in front your eyes?

I should possibly confess, at this point, to jumping from drawer to drawer when using the card catalogue decades ago. Tangents are not a new thing for me…

In amongst all the ‘not-writing- time’ I’ve spent over the past few weeks, I’ve managed to work out some of the questions I want to focus on. Most of all, I’ve worked out that there’s an awful lot to do. Tangents are not likely to be helpful. I’m planning on making 2015 a year of being organised. Any tangent chasing needs to be scheduled and mindful. I’m wondering whether the image of the simply wrapped parcel will be useful to carry with me.

I need to minimise distractions. I need to keep things simple. I need to not fuss.

If I can do that, I think I will be on the way to making the year a good one. *This feeling of ‘right’ places is important to me. I might try to explain it one day. Or, perhaps, it’s for a poem… **I haven’t had a coffee for nearly three years. (Just two or three weeks to go until I get to the three year mark…) I don’t know why I was tempted. I don’t miss it that much on a day-to-day basis.

Winding down, winding up – reflecting on writing goals

Suddenly, December is so close you can reach out and almost touch it.

How did that happen?

It doesn’t seem that long since I turned to the first page of the goals journal I bought in the spirit of commitment and treat.

A nice journal is always a treat. If I can put the worry of messing up the beauty of a fresh set of pages in balance with the excitement of … a fresh set of pages.

Now I’m on my way to a Christmas party, and I began the weekend with a family outing to Freo for their celebratory turning on the Christmas lights.

We’re trying to work out the best time to get people together to decorate the family Christmas trees.

Secret Christmas wishes are being whispered in ears.

freo christmas lights 2014 1 — Ready to go

Mayor turning on Christmas lights — Ta da

I just don’t think I’m ready for December.

A new battery

People keep asking if ‘things’ are slowing down with the year winding up.

No. Not at all. The next four weeks are going to be jam packed and I don’t know how I’m going to fit everything in.

I know I’m not alone in this. I’ve just been thinking about how much this time of the year impacts on people’s sense of balance.

We live at a break next pace and the holiday season just sees the action crank up.

In the spirit of the season, I’m considering a piece about wind-up dolls. Festive but frenetic.

I’m hoping it will be fun.

It will also be nice if it isn’t too clichéd.

Meanwhile, I know that I need to replace the battery in the clock in my bedroom. Since I schedule all my alarms and reminders through my phone, the clock is just for show.

I know the clock isn’t working. I know that.

Yet every time I look at it there is a jolt that comes from the sense of time being out of joint.

Normally I just know the time. I can usually say where I am in relation to the ocean, too. I just know. I don’t know how. I just do.

On my mind

All this is on my mind because of that (silly) clockwork piece I’m toying with.

It can really only be toying because there is work coming at me from all directions. I am aware that now is possibly not the best time to be starting a new ‘fun’ piece.

Then, again, perhaps it is the perfect time to have a ‘little’ something waiting in the folder at the side of the desk.

A space to breathe. Somewhere to be calm and revel in a moment of play.

A frivolous moment

Frenzy and stress, aside, December is fun. Out and out, fun.

That might be the Sagittarian in me thinking out loud, I suppose.

Jollity and all that…

Or it could be the promise of hot Perth nights with a breeze off the river and the stars clear overhead.

It is great to take time out just be with the people I love.

I’m looking forward to fun with the family over Christmas lunch. I gather there are plans for a return of my sister’s vegan turkey.

Always a treat…and so much less stress than the feathered version…

Salad picture of a turkey — The vegan turkey

All that said, I wish you all the best as the wild ride that can be the festive season begins.

*It was February. I was a bit late with the new year review because the New Year was so busy… I guess that cuts out a month in the equation.

Shifting views – juggling a desire to write with the reality of life

I didn’t make it to the page last week. Well, not on this side of my world. Not this page.

I missed it.

There were plenty of times when I thought I might be just about be ready and then…the moment passed.

Evaporated.

I thought about so many things that I could write. Somewhere in the chaos (I also didn’t make it to the housework, as it happens) there are a few sticky notes that sketch content and images.

I considered a mid-week post. I played with the idea of a late-week post. I realised I just needed to accept that some weeks I might not make it.

Of course, there is always the possibility of having a stash of posts ready and waiting. A patient queue of ideas all bright and shiny, ready and waiting.

It’s a simple dream.

I expect they’re the one’s you’ve got to have.

Enough with the excuses

Spaces

When I was wandering around looking for somewhere to write last week (trying to multitask…it’s a long story ) I came across a new structure at Bathers Beach in Freo.

It is an open-framed shelter on a fair sized deck.

From the looks of things, it is a social space. Somewhere to kick back on a summer’s day. A place to party.

I think it would be a lovely place to write.

Frame of shelter at Bathers Beach — Open to the elements

I sat in the shade for a while. I made some notes. I took some photos that I think will be useful for a poem, perhaps even a story.

Mostly I sat.

I was waiting for someone and settling into writing just didn’t happen.

While I didn’t get much ‘done’ I did make progress.

I had popped into Dawn Meader’s exhibition at Kidogo Arthouse. It was an unexpected treat and I found a painting that I loved.

It is a view through a doorway into a garden in Tuscany in the late afternoon. (I wish I could remember the title. I’m sure ‘afternoon’ features.)

I have a thing for doorways that I can’t really explain. (Also, Tuscany – I must go one day – afternoon light and gardens.)

I’m looking forward to bringing to bringing the painting home. It is going to go near a reading chair. Or my writing desk. I think.

The painting got me thinking.

Wandering into the framed shelter – a space that is really all doorways and views – I got to thinking about how our world can shift.

Well, our view of it.

Depending on how we frame it.

Echoes

In the last couple of weeks there have been lines from poems that keep coming back to me. Especially T. S. Eliot’s ‘Journey of the Magi’.

I have mixed feelings about Eliot’s poem. I had to learn it as a recital piece for a Literature class when I was 15. It was a choral speech exercise and I really wasn’t fan. Not of the poem. Not of choral speech.

Looking back, I know that my ambivalence at the time came from how the poem was presented to us.

Perhaps the lines come back to me so often because they were gouged so deeply into my memory by rote learning. I don’t think that is it, though.

At the same time we learnt Edwin Muir’s ‘The Horses’. I remember that poem but it doesn’t come back to me in what I’d describe as meaningful ways.

I think – hope – it is more because I’ve come to an understanding and appreciation of the poem.

There are lines that catch at me and I think about them. Probably when I should be thinking about other things.

Lately I’ve been musing about two moments in the poem. The first is lines 8-10:

There were times we regretted

The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,

And the silken girls bringing sherbet.

The other is lines 33-35:

And I would do it again, but set down

This set down

This…

It is the word ‘regretted’ and the need to ‘set down’ that resonate most immediately.

Now, with the benefit of a lot of decades, I can see the cadences Eliot builds into the poem are exquisite. My frame has shifted.

I’m sure it will shift again.

The emotional range of the poem is striking. There is so much to think about.

Journeys

A lot of the time I think about the effectiveness of Eliot’s language. Recently, I’ve thinking about people making difficult journeys – literal and metaphorical – and what those journeys mean.

I live in Australia, a place where it’s hard not to think about people making difficult journeys.

We’re brought up on them as a national mythology. These days we impose them as a political …

I’m stumped, there are so many words that I could use that I shy away from. Most of them are unpleasant.

I’ll settle on expedience.

Departures, arrivals and returns are fraught. We’ve made them that way. We advertise them that way.

Eliot was writing about something that I know is unrelated to contemporary Australia and yet how I engage with the poem has shifted because of our current climate.

I realise this may seem oblique. I’m still working with it and I’m not quite sure where it’s going to take me.

The way I’ve been thinking about it means there are now different connections between my memory and my reading(s) of the poem.

Journeys, what we see, experience and share change us.

Eliot’s magi find themselves ‘no longer at ease’ (l. 41).

Likewise, my frame has shifted and I’m not as comfortable as I once thought I was.

Hot summer day at Cottesloe — Big blue sky

* I do, of course, have a list of ideas – and a schedule for some ‘key’ dates waiting patiently. I just haven’t done anything with it. I’m planning a writing weekend. I ‘just need’ to clear other commitments…

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