Wintery wonders

It's really winter, at last. Yesterday Bumblebee and I were riding to school, swathed in knitted headwear, wind-proof jackets and thick gloves. He looked at me and said How much longer is winter? with a big cloud of fog leaving his mouth as he said it. All I could say is A lot longer; this is only the first month. To his credit, he kept riding stoically.



I've spent the last two days over at the Canberra Institute of Technology, sitting on an assessment panel for their art and design diploma students. I've been riding my bike there, and on the way I ride through the above park, next to Civic. This photo was taken at 9am this morning.

There's a calm about Canberra at certain times of the year (and day) that really appeals to me. I love feeling like the only person left roaming the earth... this morning was one of those moments. Usually I only get that sensation on a Sunday night at about 9pm, or in the wee small hours of any Canberra morning. This morning there was a light mist in the air, and I felt like I was moving under water. The trees were stretching up, the same way I'd been stretching up in yoga the night before, trying to remember to keep my shoulder-blades down and my side ribs up.



They didn't look naked, or shivering, or thin, like so many winter trees do. They were reaching, breathing, and loving the cool damp air as much as I was.

I've been embracing the cold, enjoying the chance to make comfort food (tonight we had our favorite beetroot risotto followed by a wonderful nutty quince cake that BB made yesterday) and reading good books (in my nice warm bed, of course).

I was very excited a few weeks ago to discover that Joan London had released another novel, a long time after her amazing first book, Gilgamesh. I adored Gilgamesh because it was so dense with layers and thoughts and yet seemed so simple. It was anchored to outback WA, yet roamed into exotic territory in Europe and the Middle East. Her latest effort, The Good Parents, again has its roots firmly in rural WA, and again roams, but this time she doesn't leave Australia's shores, and instead of being set in the past, she stays firmly in a contemporary scenario. She still explores issues of loss and intimacy, but it's a tighter circle. It seems deceptively simple, but I think when I revisit it (I like a gap of about 12 months for words to lie fallow) I'll find similar archetypal layering to the first novel.

On the weekend I started Sophie Cunningham's latest novel, Bird. I found it very hard to put down, and last night found myself unable to turn out the light as I was trapped in Leningrad under the most horrific circumstances. I can't praise this book highly enough; it just kept me rapt the whole way through, and I learned -- ingested -- more about Buddhism during the course of the book than I have from flipping through countless 'Buddhism for dummies'-type volumes over the years. Which is not to say it's a boringly didactic book. No, it's an international romp with sparkle, depth and feeling. I read a review that praised Sophie's ability to maintain such distinct voices for her characters, and it's true.

Now I've started her first book, Geography, which I know is the wrong way around, but I have a habit of wanting to read batches of books by the same author, and Bird just looked too luscious to wait for. I know the third novel is about Leonard and Virginia Woolf, which excites me greatly, and may I just say here, Sophie, that if you want a glossary of printing terminologies (I heard you fumbling around for 'printing metal' today on The Book Show) to add authenticity to Leonard's voice, I'm your girl. Of course, you may be thoroughly well-researched, and just had a blank moment this morning :)

By the way, that Book Show link was about the latest Meanjin, if you missed it. Good stuff.

I'm not sure which direction I'll head when I've finished Geography. Either it will send me somewhere I need to go, or I'll do my usual re-reading of something classic until inspiration hits me. I may need to go back to Mansfield Park, just to reassure myself that Jane really did know best.

Intersection (ii)

I am riding along the bicycle path. I have just said goodbye to my one and only child, the child who was clutching his chest in pain and fear a couple of days ago, and who was fine only minutes later. He is riding across the oval to his school. I have only said goodbye for the day. I hope. No, I know.

I am riding along the bicycle path. As he rode away I put my Shuffle earpieces in my ears and switched on. Let's Dance to Joy Division started, loud and clear. I stopped, paused the music, and called this out to my boy, who laughed joyfully and started singing it aloud as he bumped over the grass. It's his favorite song. I started again and rode, hard, pumping my feet to the beat of the song. I feel the upbeat edge of the music, enjoy the damp misty coolness of the grey morning.

I reach where the bicycle path crosses the road, and the pedestrian lights are just about to change in my favour. There is a woman with a dog, about to take a chance against the traffic, not knowing that the lights are orange. I sweep past her in the middle of the road when something about the side of her face makes me glance back. It is someone I haven't seen for years, but have thought about constantly.

Across the road I stop and say her name. She looks at me properly and we recognise each other, happily. We stand off to one side of the path, and start to chat. Last time I saw her she had moved a long way north, about as north as you can go, almost. She was fast-tracked for success in the art world, with her amazing paintings. I ask her about her art, how it's going.

She answers blithely, telling me that she hasn't done much for about two years, how she's re-prioritising her life. I listen to her, and I know that she's trying not to say out loud what I already know -- that two years ago she lost her child at the moment of birth. I read it in the paper at the time, heard it from mutual friends, and didn't know how to get in touch with her. I cried then for her, couldn't imagine going through nine months of joy to end in such a way, wondered how to convey this to her, and then -- typical -- got caught up in my own life.

I can't let her struggle to find non-committal things to say. I tell her that I heard about her baby, and how sorry I am about it. Suddenly the bicycle path and everything on it disappears. We are in a bubble of relief, sorrow and truth. We swap stories about miscarriages, bastard doctors and helplessness. We tear up, we hug. I pat the dog, who looks as though she can listen compassionately forever.

The art has stopped. Time has stopped. She is gardening, all she can bring herself to do. Her partner, a very good man, suffers as well, but carries on. I can only guess he feels helpless and work keeps him on track. I tell her that I've had enough, I've drawn a line in the sand, that I've decided to disengage with my body and get on with stuff; she looks at me sadly and says that she's not quite ready for that yet. I can see that she has unfinished business, that she won't be free of it until she either gets resolution or someone else draws a line for her. All I can do is wish her peace, whichever way it goes.

We sense that much time has passed. We start making excuses; we don't make too many promises to catch up, but it's good to know we both exist now in the same city. We will see each other, and each time will be good and meaningful. It is hard to move away from her, I'm so there in the moment. But eventually I break out of the bubble, put the earpieces back in, and resume pedalling. Suddenly I don't feel the upbeat, it's the words that hit me.

Let's dance to Joy Division,
And celebrate the irony,
Everything is going wrong,
But we're so happy,
Let's dance to Joy Division,
And raise our glass to the ceiling,
'Cos this could all go so wrong,
But we're so happy,
Yeah we're so happy,
So happy,
Yeah we're so happy,
So happy,
Yeah we're so happy.

I turn it up, to drown out the thoughts, and ride.

Off-path cycling

I fell off my bike.

There's nothing like falling off your bike to make you feel undignified.

In this case, it was the fault of a woman who let her dog run down a laneway off the leash. Her 'sweet' blue heeler lunged and barked angrily at Bumblebee as he rode around the corner into the laneway, I braked hard (to jump off and defend him) and my bike slipped on autumn leaves and I went arse over tit face down on the ground.

Lovely autumn leaves and grass broke my fall, thank goddess, but it didn't help my recovering neck, and my hands feel a bit tender. And my arse was high in the air, sprawled over the bike, which is not a good look really.

Snaps to the nice young man who stopped and made sure I was alright.

As I fell I screeched angrily at the woman, who was trying to grab her dog (leash in hand), and as we rode off again I couldn't help snapping at her that it would be helpful if she could keep her dog on leash until she got to a park. She looked as shocked as I felt, but I thought that might be a good thing.

I'm sorry, dog-lovers, I have little tolerance for unleashed dogs on shared paths. Once I came off my bike because someone was walking their three little fluffy things and had let them loose, but still tied them together, and they lurched across the path like some zany cartoon trap. As I was dusting myself off, the owner laughed as if it were a huge joke and I gave him a very big piece of my mind in return.

Best Beloved has been grabbed by dogs as he's ridden along, and he has no problems kicking at them in return.

I like dogs generally; I think it's irresponsible owners I have a problem with.

And, in case you hate cyclers on shared paths, I do try my best to be considerate when I ride past walkers. I ding my smiley bell, and I slow down around blind corners.

Anyway. I'm going to bed early to give my hands quality time to heal.

Happy birthday, Canberra

It feels like Monday today, because yesterday Canberra had a day off to celebrate its 95th birthday. I took some of the day off to have a bike ride with B and BB. We didn't join The Big Canberra Bike Ride, because we stayed in bed and had pancakes with yogurt and maple syrup. But we did a ride around the lake, popping in on the Albert Hall's birthday celebrations, cruising past the Navy Day activities, pausing to watch the dragon boat races, and gaze at the very weird Navy divers floating in a mobile tank (extra weird for me, having seen The Diving Bell and the Butterfly the day before), and having a major break at the budding Celebrate Canberra Concert in Commonwealth Park, alas too early for any good music.

It was a gorgeous day. I left the boys in the park haggling over carnival rides and rode over to the art school where I spent the afternoon batching book covers. Batching means that I don't go through the whole binding process; I'll cut 20 spines, 20 spine strips, 2 sets of boards, and do each stage 20 times. It's laborious, but eventually time-saving, as any time-and-motion study will tell you. The problem is that you have to concentrate at the beginning of any batching stage, because if you make a mistake then, you'll make it 20 times.

I've become a devotee of a digital radio station called Gimme Noise, with a tagline that says 'New and Classic Indie and Punk Rock'. It's like the hits and memories station for the 30- to 40-somethings who used to hang out in the uni bar next to the juke box, playing pool. You know who you are. I wasn't one of you, but I lived with a few of you, and I'm enjoying the chance to catch up on the music without having to be trashed. And you can make requests, which is a lot of fun. The only downside of the station is that it's American, and the only Australians I can find on their playlist are the Go-Betweens (not a bad thing), but that's their problem, and the rest of the music is excellent.

Damn, my whole week is going to be out now. I keep thinking my students should be showing right now, but instead I have a long quiet day of batching ahead of me. Not as sexy as printing, but all part of the book editioning process.

I didn't go nuts at Lifeline this time; I think my total expenditure was about $60, and only two bags of books all up. Probably a good thing for our poor overloaded house, which is groaning under the weight of book piles. One of my students did show up this morning, to show me the big bag of books he found at the Fair (his first, and by the gleam in his eye, not to be his last). He's working with fairy tales from a boy's perpective, and his desk is now groaning with old Boys' Own Annuals and other such lovely jolly tomes. O wot fun!

Dizzy with poetry

It's National Poetry Week again! To celebrate I thought I'd share the fact that I had dinner sitting between Rosemary Dobson and David Malouf at their poetry reading tonight and it was one of those evenings where you just sit back and soak it all in. Sometimes I have to pinch myself. One of DM's poems had a line a bit like 'I was so happy I forgot to be happy'. Sigh.

To temper this highbrow moment, I also wanted to share that I lost half of today by overmedicating myself for severe woman-bits pain. I had none of my usual pills left, so in desperation I popped 2 Panadol Forte and rode my bike into the art school. An hour later I was lying with my head on the desk groaning, feeling very spaced out and dizzy. The only comparison I can make (and this is from the experience of a very long time ago) is the effects of sucking on a bucket-bong. I couldn't do anything useful, so I just had to wait until I was sure I wouldn't fall back off my bicycle and ride home.

Two good things came out of this experience:

1. it was a glorious day, and I decided that if I was going to feel stoned I might as well embrace the feeling and look around me for a while. A few times on the way home I stopped the bike (or maybe it stopped me) and sat in the sun watching cockatoos or looking at the shadows cast by trees on the bikepath. There's some lovely bits of the inner North.



2. I did recover, but was still a bit lightheaded when I went to the poetry reading, so I didn't drink, which meant that I was able to give my dinner companions my full attention and didn't turn into a nervous galah.

Last year for NPW I blogged a poem every day, and I think I'll continue that tradition, including the fact that I've started a bit late into the week.

Here's one of Dobson's poems (not read tonight), which I know from tonight's conversation is one of Malouf's favorites. I'd love to post the poem he wrote in response to this (which was read tonight), but I don't have a copy and it won't be published until next year, so I'll have to wait for that pleasure.


BEING CALLED FOR

Come in at the low-silled window,
Enter by the door through the vine-leaves
Growing over the lintel. I have hung bells at the
Window to be stirred by the breath of your
Coming, which may be at any season.

In winter the snow throws
Light on the ceiling. If you come in winter
There will be a blue shadow before you
Cast on the threshold.

In summer an eddying of white dust
And a brightness falling between the leaves.

When you come I am ready: only, uncertain---
Shall we be leaving at once on another journey?
I would like first to write it all down and leave the pages
On the table weighted with a stone,
Nevertheless I have put in a basket
The coins for the ferry.

Rosemary Dobson, from Collected Poems (Sydney: A&R, 1993)


Beautiful, non? Spring is such a good time for poetry. I lose all interest in cut flowers in Spring. Gone are the days of buying poppies and jonquils at the markets. Who needs them when there are camellias outside my windows and blossoms in the streets?



Exactly.



Postscript: I caught that last photo just in time. Today as I rode by the sky was grey and the blossoms were muddied by the new red leaves coming through on the branches.

The sound of ...

I'm sure many people think about what they could be doing if they had a chance to try something else.

I was riding along today on the bicycle in the sun along Canberra's fabulous bike paths (except for that little bit near the Street Theatre where ANU has bastardly removed the whole bike path and any sign of a footpath and mounted a fence across to the street with a sign that says 'pedestrians' with an arrow pointing to the middle of the road. grrrr....) and thinking about the fact that I seem to be moving along a very artsy-fartsy career path, and that if I wanted to change track quite radically, I'd probably be too old to be taken seriously in my new vocation. I mean, anyone can become an artist or writer at any age. Look at Rosalie Gascoigne or Elizabeth Jolley, or even frigging Matthew Riley! But it's a different thing doing the entire reskilling in something industry-related. It seems you need to be between 25 and 35 to get anywhere these days.

If I could go right back and start again, career-wise, I'd like to be a Foley artist. I flirt with this idea every few years, just because I like listening to odd sounds with my eyes shut and imagining other uses for the sounds. It's a great thing to do when you're bored, because you can change even boring old house creaks into a sci fi movie. Just don't let your imagination run away with you, or you might start visualising really scarey things from very innocent sounds!

I didn't know you could get paid for such thoughts (or just didn't think seriously about it) until I saw a documentary on the making of Star Wars where the foley guy was talking about walking near a high-tension cable bridge and hearing the cables hum in the wind. He got his tape-recorder thingy (I'm sure it's more complex than just a tape-recorder, but hey, it was 1976 when he did it, so maybe not) and recorded the sounds, then used them for one of the spaceships moving through space. My wee brain just flipped. Imagine being paid to walk around and record fun sounds for future use in movies?

Along this thought train (sorry about the near derailment up there), did anyone see those marvellous people who used to come to groovy cinemas like Valhalla and Electric Shadows and show old movies with alternate sound effects? There was, of course, the inimitable and tragically undone Blue Grassy Knoll, who would play their own bluegrass compositions to Buster Keaton movies, but there was another mob in the early 1990s who would show old cowboy movies and black&white space hero movies like Buck Rogers and stand up the front under the screen and play their own live sound effects. They really were impressive.

But, I shall stay on track with a life of books and just think about what can be done with odd noises, thus avoiding all of that film industry pressure and kerfuffle.

Duck!

Such a beautiful Canberra night to be on the bicycle. Riding back from the art school to Bumblebee's school at dusk is a trip through inner North Canberra green spaces. I found myself gazing at the skyline on the left, which was pale yellow at the horizon deepening into what the watercolour pencil people call Night Green but is actually a deep greeny-blue. I glanced to the skyline on the right of the path, and it was pale pink darkening into Night Green. I looked right around, trying to stretch my neck like an owl to see behind, to find the point at which the colour shifted... the pink went around until it reached the silhouette of Black Mountain, and then reemerged from the mountain as yellow.. then it went around the horizon as yellow until it reached the trees towering up beside the bike path when it turned pink... AAAARGH!

That was the point at which I looked forward and saw a dawdle of ducks on the path in front of me.

No feathers lost, and the ducks and I shared a moment in time just looking at each other. Nice critters, but in no hurry at all. I, on the other hand, had to try to get to After School Care before they sent my child into foster care. So regretfully I dinged my bell and they toddled off into the darkness. It does get dark early these days, doesn't it?

Printing Gloom and Doom

I've just had a great afternoon printing on the letterpress. I'm working on a print edition for the Gallery 451 Political Print Exchange and I think I've finished it. Unfortunately the gloom that is sitting at the back of my brain thanks to the impending US electoral farce has oozed all over my creativity and the print is pretty sombre.

I dunno: it's raining, I've got some bluesy jazz on the studio stereo, and all I can think about is whether Americans are going to shock me and show some sense or if they're going to be as cowardly as most of Australia and stick with a horrendous Government just because a change is too scary. The afternoon has had overtones of a cliched Hollywood movie, but at least it's been productive.

Oh shit. I just remembered that I left my bike light on the bike all day and it's probably going to malfunction on the way home, which means a wet and dark ride. Nothing like a sustained mood, eh?

Weekend jollity

I've had one of those weekends where there's been no time to blog. This is a good thing, because it means I've been off the computer all weekend, and my neck will thank me for it. Yesterday I finished my poetic square spiral. I looked at it, proofed it, and with the classic decision-making skills of a female Libran, decided I didn't like it, so pulled it apart and make a different configuration. I didn't have my digicam with me, so the technical brilliance of that particular creative endeavour is now lost forever. Never mind, I fully enjoyed the moment and that is what counts.

After this intoxicating day of creation and destruction I chuffed off to the elegant surrounds of the Canberra Polish Club with Best Beloved (Bumblebee was visiting the Albatross for the weekend) to get wonderfully pished (decided to beat the non-baby blues by falling gracefully off the wagon for a couple of weeks) in the company of Martin Pearson. If you don't know this fellow, get acquainted, especially if you happen to like the Lord of the Rings trilogy (both book and film). Martin, a most irreverent folkie, does a wonderful and very loving parody called The Unfinnished Spelling Errors of Bolkien. Every year after each film came out he would perform the latest instalment of the parody at Woodford Folk Festival. He recorded a version of the three episodes after Easter at the Polish club which was made into a CD, and I am in the audience... I'm going to listen to the CD later in the week and see if my trademark laugh is audible or if it has been fuzzed out by the sound technician. I'm not terribly proud of this laugh, and can usually keep it controlled, but Martin tends to snap all the restaints.

Last night he launched into one of his favorite monologues, on the weirdness of the plane trip that he'd just taken to get to the gig. I don't think I can do justice to this one, but it involved him walking up to the check-in staff at Virgin, placing his bag on the conveyor belt and saying helpfully "There's nothing flammable, sharp or explosive in my bag." The woman said immediately "I'm sorry sir, you're not allowed to say the word 'explosive' to me."
Martin replied "Why aren't I allowed to say the word 'explosive' to you?" She pointed to the sign which says that jokes about security threats would not be tolerated. He told her that he didn't say the word 'explosive' as a joke, but to be helpful. She got quite flustered and just repeated that he wasn't allowed to say that word. He asked what would be the consequences of saying 'explosive', and she replied that he would have to be inspected for traces of explosives on his person and the manager would be called. Then she asked him if he would like an aisle seat or a window seat.
"Hang on, just go back a bit," said Martin. "I haven't quite finished with this topic... Why aren't I allowed to helpfully say the word 'explosive?" (He didn't mind being inspected, he was there an hour and a half early, nothing better to do, and this was just way too much fun.) ... and on it went, until finally the manager was called. Martin explained his helpfulness, and she explained her position. Martin estimates that by the end of the interlude, he had managed to say 'explosive' around 21 times, she had said it 11 times, and the manager had said it 3 times. Fun with airlines!

I had a few ciders through the night (I have to drink cider with folk stuff) and because I haven't been drinking much, well, at all, lately, they went straight to my head. And the more pished I got, the funnier Martin got, or seemed to get. Then I thanked him profusely, got on my bike and rode carefully down the dark bike tracks (with Best Beloved, who usually rides very fast, doing his best to ride as slowly as I) of the Inner North. At one point I pointed my wheels towards the (quite wide) pedestrian space in the middle of a traffic island and missed. I hit the slopey kerb of the island instead and got quite a rude shock which unleashed a torrent of giggles most of the rest of the way home. Not very dignified, but who wants to be on a Saturday night?

Today I had to entertain my soon-to-be Parents-in-Law. I wasn't worried, until Best Beloved woke at 6am and got up to clean instead of lolling around in bed as is his usual Sunday wont. They weren't arriving until 6.30pm, so I got the hint that he'd like the usual pigsty transformed. But you can't make a silk purse etc. etc., so I managed to disguise the really objectionable bits and place Mother with her back to the Wall of Crud (a mound of boxes and future-useful-things that doesn't look very suave) while she ate, and I think I got away with it. I cooked a pretty cool chicken lasagne to use the lasagne dish she gave me for my birthday (!) and also tried out a chocolate-beetroot cake that turned out very nicely, especially with a side-dish of honeyed farm cheese. Bumblebee came back from the Albatross still dressed in the clothes he was wearing yesterday and when asked if he'd changed them at all replied that his dad hadn't bothered to bring his bag of clothes in from the car! Unbelievable. I guess he's also giving him lessons on how to scratch his crotch in public and open his beer with one eyeball.

Best Beloved wants to sleep, so I'd better stop (if I don't go to bed early, I don't catch the worm, so to speak!).