Poet Posing on Prose Platform

Author Archive: isabel1

Poltergeist solution: Kills a Darling

Character Removal? I have been stuck at an impasse – having pantsed my way to a character development, giving her a life of her own but stuck with what she will do in the four years between arriving in Western Australia in 1924 (as per plot) and returning to the UK in 1928 to die in childbirth.  Her journey, with chaperone, to WA via South Africa, her arrival and stay with aunt and uncle who offer her a continuing role : all that written down, leaving me to ponder whether she goes along that line or what ever interesting things she could be doing. Thought I had it worked out and loaded the project to continue only to find -or rather, not to find – a swathe of text missing. After agonising what happened or where I may have mistakenly deleted/ copied/ pasted/ whatever I have decided to accept the possibility a poltergeist has been at work. Perhaps I have been editing in my sleep although I don’t recall dreaming that I was typing.  Or perhaps one of my darlings has killed herself rather then endure/enjoy my cogitated possibilities.

Within the scope of four generations, this character was to die in childbirth while producing a daughter and transmitting an rH factor. So, in effect, she was easy to kill. But if ever I have time and inclination to write the personal stories of many of the characters, she will be easy enough to resurrect. So, it is bye-bye for now, Lady Belinda. (Already thinking how I can infiltrate her into a back story of character whose future outline already loosely plotted. Hmmm.

All of this leads me to reflect on the wisdom of proceeding slowly and getting things right as one goes along. Using Scrivener’s search I was able to collect every mention of Belinda and able to select that which to keep and that which to remove so as to stay on track with major thread.

 

 

Idling Until Ready to Shift Gears

Though very little posted here lately, the old brain box has been busy. Most active on waking with streams of ideas for posts, for conversations drifting from one topic to the next, but always coming back to the next stage of my novel.

Set in chronological order, written in present tense, each stage/scene/action is bounded within time and space. and am at a stage where I know where I want/need a character to travel in order to progress the story. Spending many moments on exploring the external and internal motivations driving him in the desired direction.

He is now 65 years of age and setting out on a journey which will take him to Cape Town, perhaps Durban and then onto Western Australia before returning to his home in Dumfries, Scotland. His wife is 16 years younger than he, they have two daughters the youngest being 17 years of age.

Am wondering whether to kill off his wife? Or discover the love of his life (his wife) has been unfaithful leading to the possibility the youngest daughter is not his. If I am ti kill her off, I will need to have her either become very ill; be involved as a victim in a fatal accident. Whatever, it has to be traumatic for him.

All suggestions welcome. 

It is not that I am not busy, just pondering over which thread to pick up and pull out onto a page. Looks as if I shall have to pick up one of my many sharpened pencils and tackle the problem on paper and see which flows more freely.

Unless you suggest something I have yet to consider? Which would you rather read?

So Much for Habits (new ones, that is)

The intention to keep posting faltered when I decided to take control of an unpleasant relationship. Since then I have been dealing with the aftermath which, I feel, included psychosomatasising the pain – back on the walker for a day or so, stiff talking with myself!
Since then motivation low, but on bike a few times for a swim at the gym. Then planned on new habit of writing X amount before treating myself to a trip to the pool. Am at a stage in The Book where is is necessary to get a good visual of the age differences between the characters who will play their part. This required a spreadsheet with years of birth and death and how that relates to the year in which the journey takes place. By the time I had done that, looked out the patio doors and found it was raining and didn’t fancy riding on wet road in mid-morning traffic. SO, out with the floor steamer and cleaned the apartment from corner to corner and rearranged this and that – have a thing about matching! Sweat streaming and glad I have bought a bottle of salt tablets. Worn out, everything spic and span and so tidy ex-husbands and children would find it difficult to believe.
Woke, head busy with long conversation I would like to have within an FB post, but would have been too long for that, so I think I will keep for a post here. However, second coffee and breakfast, streched on on recliner and not inclined to do anything when noise, noise, noise!
Was the first down into the foyer, nightdress and towelling robe and on my own long enough could have showered and  dressed and (if used) made u-p by the time anyone else arrived.

Firies everywhere, but turned out to be someone on my floor had been frying without using the extractor fan. Well, that got me out of sloth. Checking budget before going down to Bunnings for some pot plants? Will spending lift the mood?

Myself My Own Worst Enemy

Rode the bike to and from the shop to have the seat permanently fixed in height and swivel. Nerve wracking going there as seat changed height three times and direction once.

Next morning, thinking myself AOK, went shopping and when dragging full trolley  home my right calf seized up as if cramped, but now think more like calf muscle end of Achilles tendon. Slow and painful walk for a couple of hundred metres. Seemed longer.

Did I listen? Did I heck. Arrived home to find a note in my letterbox advising a parcel could be collected after mid-day. Thirty minutes very slow walk there and another back with new keyboard – assisting vision – collected.  then googled and spend the evening with hot water bottles, full and frozen under calf.  Fifteen minutes on and fifteen minutes off. Took myself to bed at some ungodly early hour so have been awake since two this morning. Sat out on the patio, under cover of upstairs balcony and enjoyed the cooling air as the rain started down. Radio (headphones on) said it was going to get worse and there were still a couple of things needed at the shop. So, down to my storage area and resurrected this.

Just as I had been planning on lending it to a friend in need! Got soaking wet despite jacket, but I love walking in the rain – but to be able to prance instead of plod would have been better. All this at a time when my gym subscription has started to be directly deducted. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

I suppose I could get on with the Book? Sigh. Coffee and more rain watching first, methinks.

If you have been patient enough to put up with my moaning – thank you – and may you have a great weekend wherever and whomsoever you are.

Updated Book Covers = Apple Users Now Able to Access

For far too long I had delayed upgrading the covers for my books on Smashwords. Top of the list for 2017 and now done and all books are now back on Premium Distribution.

Essay Entry: Challenge Accepted – Foot on Learning Curve

The first thing to check is that the title submitted is not the one used for an earlier version. Even to me, my first draft was so, so pompous that all the scholarly research was abandoned for, what I thought, was a more light approach.

The original title was: Australia: A Collection of Assumptions

The first assumption was that it existed at all as a balance for the weight of the earth in the known – at that time – world.

And then went on and on. Actual, factual text submitted was

Picture this:

A twelve year old child was gifted a book in recognition of her insatiable curiosity. Within its pages she was introduced to Kipling’s six honest servingmen thus finding names for the members of her pack of mental puppies. The puppies were exposed to sand, surf and Sunday School and, on the other days of the week, relaxed at the back of the class near those high achievers who had to exercise to gain their place. Having already discovered that the path to efficiency is blazed by the lazy, she sat with her ears open and hands under desk-top busy knitting a scarf using spider stitch.

Back then the days were busy and the years as long as only a country child can recall. From her bed on the front verandah she contemplated the profile of an aboriginal warrior staring up to the night sky from his home in an enormous gum tree. As the evening breeze ruffled the leaves, setting the watching warrior free into the heavens, she snuggled down to sleep with a sense of being protected; of being Watched Over. With ears open, hands busy spinning threads of experience and thought, she now knots a net into being. Flinging the net far and wide to ensnare the progeny of the Bunyip and Behemoth. Scary creatures were it not that terror is part of our mental territory.

The energies of ancestral myths, their archetypes, now hidden within modernity, seep and escape into subconciousness; leaching from the underground of understandings made manifest in the diverse behaviours Homo sapiens call ‘human nature’. The Stone Age person is still within Modern Mankind; outwardly fashioned by the survival of such genes as best suit the environments of time and place. An example given here is that of indigenous mothers within Australia giving birth to babies considered and judged by the non-indigenous as being of light weight. This assessment gives little consideration to the thousands of years mothers have had to carry babies on their hips or in a coolamon. Given the human brain’s propensity for pattern recognition, the observational powers of women and babies – their own and others – together the tribal cross cousin marriage system, credit could be given for identifying a strain prone to producing less burdensome babies.

(One snippet heard by these open ears was Kathy Freeman’s bones are far less dense than the norm of the general population. This was stated as an explanation for her capacity for speed as well as an illustration of the need to conserve energy when covering long distances by walking.)

Cross cousin breeding has a long history, the patterns and consequences of which would be instantly appreciated by those who knowingly raise thoroughbred dogs or horses. However, not all breeders have the knowledge or the courage to carry through to the five generations required to produce the true thoroughbred. For those who do there comes a time when it is judicious to bring in an out-cross; a completely new line believing in the protection hybrid vigour for the first of the new generation.

And what might the foregoing have to do with being “Australian”?

Simply put, we are a motley of mongrels. A mixture of mutts. As diverse as afghans and dachshunds. But we are a breed which likes to please, be friendly and entertaining. When well-trained, we fetch and carry for those we perceive to be our masters.

Above all, we are a bright bunch of bastards. Ingenious, inventive, motivated. We might just be Humanity’s Best Friend?

Picture This:

As with many Australian children, this one had never met any of the First Peoples of this land. Until she was seventeen years of age, training as a nurse in Ward 31 of Royal Perth Hospital in 1956. A woman, thin as a rake, bed-sores packed with eusol dressings from sacrum under skin to hip. Incontinent, mute and utterly miserable. During a staff meeting someone suggested her health may improve if her baby was brought in from wherever it was being fostered. A baby? A baby girl. Rumour had it, this woman (let us call her Nancy) had walked more than two thousand miles during her pregnancy. The soles of her feet, thick and hard as boot leather. The baby was brought to the ward and given into her arms. Next day, the very next day, Nancy was out of bed, walking for the first time in months, standing in the fresh air on the balcony. The first word she cried out she demanded “BEDPAN” and she had us scuttling and glad of it.

Aged 14, this girl was employed sorting trunk line dockets in the Accounts Department of the PostMaster General’s Office in Perth. She worked alongside a young woman whose parents had emigrated from Greece after the Second World War. They had brought their customs with them; one being the elder daughter must first be married before my work mate could upgrade her engagement ring to a wedding band. What a wedding that was!

Earlier, before this child was born, her maternal grandparents emigrated from the UK in 1922 to take up land under the Group Settlement Scheme in Northcliffe in Western Australia. As a Master Mariner, it did not take long for her grandfather to walk off that land in favour of a position as Harbourmaster. The move to Australia was likely to have been at the grandmother’s instigation. A family joke stated as true that he only once returned from a voyage to the same home as he had departed. (It might be her gypsy blood; her family clan territory both sides of the Scottish border.) That was a place in the countryside of Northumberland. The mother of this child was four years of age when emigrating and spent most of her years on the family’s poultry farm which sustained them during the Depression.

The Group Settlement Scheme was preceded by the Soldier Settlement Scheme following the First World War. As well as giving some soldiers something to come home to, it further strengthened the White Australia Policy. (Forgotten were those aboriginals left stranded in South Africa because they volunteered to fight in the Boer War). British soldiers have a history of making Australia home ever since being sent to guard the convicts for whom the first settlements were created. Speaking of convicts, those prisoners in Hungarian prisoners were released at the beginning of the 1956 uprising and, the young nurse was told by one such, they were the first to make a hasty departure from the country. So, convicts, soldiers and emigrants from Europe were the bulwarks of White Australia until the Immigration Restriction Act was repealed in 1958. As an Australians resident in the UK during the 60’s, this young woman found herself unable to defend her nation’s history. Unable to define the emotion experienced when her face was held by the chin to the light and hear it declared that this is “my own aborigine.” Embarrassment, yes. Shame, no. Something else. Was it the spirit of the gum tree warrior crying out for recognition and being denied?

The paternal branch of this child’s parentage descends from Scottish widow of 55 years of age who brought her large family to South Australia in the 1840’s. Among the many stories contained within the publication detailing the family history, there is one which this woman has hi-jacked and relates whenever given the opportunity. Such as this. According to my version, my grandfather was able to purchase a property for a pittance as the previous owner found difficult to get full price for the land he had cleared of aboriginal infestation using strychnine. In this version it is related that, if happening in my grandfather’s generation, there maybe, still alive, descendants from those away from the feed of flour at the time. In other words, the pain is too close for comfort; the asking of forgiveness and reconciliation premature. In her father’s generation this event was a joke shared around birthday barbecues. She read into the glare from her father’s eye; remember and record. She takes the permission to skew history for fear the descendants of the guilty are too afraid of the past to ever question it and thus not allow some light of day in this dark history.

Is sit racism or xenophobia which has empowered the political class to engage in policies which drive people to our shores? It would be facile to blame the military for their actions overseas; creating the havoc and destruction which drove, and still drives, attempts to reach our shores from Asia. Instructed by the policy of those politicians voted into power by the public, we all have a hand in the circumstances which give rise to the suicidal despair of those imprisoned in off-shore detention. They are even more securely incarcerated, and with less hope, than the original intruders into the oldest surviving cultures on this planet. They are there because, collectively, we put and keep them there.

Who has the right to make that mark on their ballot paper? Yes, those who were born here and, these days, that is irrespective of colour or creed. Those who qualify for naturalisation as an Australian are issued an invitation to a formal citizenship ceremony; a prerequisite for the granting of citizenship. Again, irrespective of colour, but allowing a choice of a either including or excluding God within their pledge. Why is God in this picture?

Given the separation of Church and State in Australia, this woman again asks, “Why is God in this picture?” If God, why not Allah or Vishnu? Does it take the invocation of an invisible entity to give weight to one’s word? No. Having observed the consequences of the imposition of Christianity on life within several aboriginal communities, this person is of the staunch belief that Christianity is intrinsically a corrupting influence. Particularly so on a peoples with a highly developed system of spiritual beliefs, many of which survive beneath a facade.

Is it racism, xenophobia or plain ignorance which permits the illusion of superiority over persons who do not speak the dominant language, who are regarded as illiterate either in their own language or one they have yet to learn? As previously mentioned, humans have a propensity for pattern recognition. Only since the Bronze Age has there been any need for anyone’s parietal lobe to be busy with reading and writing. Until the concept and practice of literacy was forced upon the general population, people’s brains kept busy recognising other patterns. Patterns within their culture, patterns within their landscapes, patterns within the seasons, patterns within the skies and patterns within the stars. Literate scientists have in recent times proposed the genetic transmission of memory such as to give credence to ancestral memory experienced in the form of the “collective unconscious”.  Surely a culture as continuous as that of truly indigenous Australians would have a rich and deeply embedded collective memory. From that place could arise the fear which drove aboriginals from their racially designated section of Meekatharra hospital in the 1950’s. That section had been built as a separate unit placed close to the morgue. First dead body and they were out of there in a flash. The beds were then used to house the indigent, not the indigenous. Or again, an instance when planners designed a new township for the Kalumburu community in the 1990’s. Could they not foresee the insult of using the disused rubbish tip as the recommended site?

Coming back to the question, “Why is God in this picture?” There is no escaping it. In whatever form be it Baiame, Jehovah, Allah or Vishnu the invisible Creator of All and Everything is there. Why? If, and I repeat, IF God created Man in his own image, perhaps He is having a rethink? Could it be that Australia, this sea-locked land, is God’s chosen laboratory? Is the design of the Australian coat of arms a warning that there is no going back? What does the future hold? Should we do what the ancients did and dream on it?

Picture this:

For some forgotten reason, this person leaning against a wall in Port Hedland  and asked for her skin name by a young, very dark-skinned woman. The younger woman knows we have not previously met and needs to place this stranger within the structure of tribal relationships. She shakes her head at the reply. An apology for not having a skin name. Later, relating this encounter to an English couple, they are surprised to find I am not an indigene. With a loud clang, the penny dropped in the realisation they had just lost the friend held out by them as evidence they are not racist. To further confound them was the information of gypsy ancestry for that is held as being at the bottom of the social pit.

 

Baiame beckons to live the dreams of the night into the actions of the day. As it is there, so will it be here. From this realm, satirists are inspired to create, for our entertainment, situations which play out in real life. Advertising agencies are inspired to test the acceptance of diversity. Faces inherited from Asia feature in television commercials whereas it is difficult to recall images of indigenous faces promoting the purchase of any product. The nearest is the use of aboriginal art as an evanescent art on a carpet. This is the heart of the matter. This most ancient culture is nurtured on an active belief in the spirit world. A world where the spirit speaks to the mind through dreams and the mind acts on the body to create a harmony expressed in song, dance and scary sleep-time stories so children are held close while parents are sleeping. Is there a lesson here for all components of the melting pot of persons in the Australia of this time? Should we not accept that each of us is tinged with degrees of racism, xenophobia and patriotism? Could we not accept, to the extent we are so, that this is the darker side of our being? That, first of all, we need to reconcile the shades of light, darkness and colours within  to better enable an honest acceptance of the dark history of this country.

Picture this.

Arriving at Mandorah, tired after a long drive nursing an old Toyota Hi-Lux. When asking hotelier for permission to camp in grounds was instructed, in no uncertain terms, to go and find the long grass. So this middle-aged itinerant pulled up on the road to ask a group of young lads to show her the way to the long grass. They insisted on her backing the ute into cover under an enormous banyan tree. She demurred. This is clearly a special place. No, no. You are welcome here. So the woman organised herself for the night, opening the canopy covering her bedding arrangements and settled in. That evening she was joined by a small group of elder men and a woman who had arrived from Bathurst Island for the funeral of the last of his generation. After many chitter chatters and comfortable silences, the woman said, “You are not like other white people. Why is this? (Or words to that effect, now omitting this person’s name from this account.) The reply along the lines of; “Must be my mother’s people. She comes from a gypsy family. When in London, an old woman knocked on the door of my basement bed-sitter and asked the names of my grandmother and my grandmother’s sisters. She seemed satisfied and from that moment on, for a few mad years, my life brought me into contact with gypsy people and I learnt much from them.” From then the conversation fell into the pattern of “What do the gypsies do about…..”; answered; response “same as us, same as us; shush secret business.” So it was this person came away from that encounter knowing some aboriginal secret business even though not told directly by them.

Picture This:

Time to haul in the net, hoping some of the Who, Why, Where and What Australians and Australian life as we live it has been captured within. What have we? Evidence the Behemoth and Bunyip have bred their own horrors and provide the stuff of nightmares. How does this make one feel? Some folk enjoy being frightened even by their own shadows. Personally, this woman’s sadness runs as a hidden stream beneath the years between seeing Nancy leaving Royal Perth Hospital in 1956 and reading of her discovery in an Adelaide mental hospital where she had lived for many, if not all, of the intervening years.

Looking over the shoulder as the net is dragged up the sand, Rudyard Kipling again comes to mind. In an 1891 interview he warns the Chinese have a long settling to make for the insults upon them. Again, a patient people and constructors of apartment buildings within which this ageing pensioner is provided with security and protection. He is also quoted as saying, “This country is American, but remember it is second-hand American, but there is an American tone on the top of things, but it is not real.”

And where can be found the notion of Australia as Humanity’s best friend? If only we could learn we are Australians, not Americans and that bullies are no longer permitted to behave as they do in this playground of a planet. Above all, we need to learn of, enjoy and share the troves of treasures hidden within the most ancient of cultures. Our laid-back lifestyle came from somewhere and that place is the land; Country.

Welcome.

 

 

This articulates my thinking so clearly I have to share

https://plus.google.com/+YonatanZunger/posts/irAcPiPnByd

Are You over 55 Years of Age?

Posting this to clarify an earlier post    http://wp.me/p86PWf-bV  about wet macular degeneration. Fell into the trap of thinking other people automatically understand what one means.

The grid shown in the earlier post is an example.

For the real thing download this http://www.mdfoundation.com.au/resources/1/amsler_grid.pdf

Print it out and put in on your fridge door.

WMD: Not Weapons of Mass Destruction but Wet Macular Degeneration

Just as well I have one of these charts on my fridge. Being previously alerted to changes experienced by the left eye, I have been able to catch the development of WMD – Wet Macular Degeneration in the right eye. So, suddenly a rearrangement of priorities and allocation of funds. No longer can I defer the completion of my major novel until just before the lid is nailed down as reduced vision will likely impact on my ability put words down on screen or paper. The maintenance of my eyesight is slightly more important than knees, hips and general ability to get about but I think I will be able to manage the additional eye injections as well as gym membership.

I most thoroughly recommend that everyone  print out an Amsler Grid (or get one from your optician) as the early signs can so easily be overlooked. If you see even the slightest distortion of the straight lines of a grid – take heed. Don’t wait until the lines bend in all directions and darkened areas show up. 

Early detection enables the condition to be stabilised, so earlier the better. When one eye is affected the chances of both are 50%. Not in the mood to search probabilities if a family member has or had it – my mother did and I now kick myself as I never thought to ask whether both eyes were affected.  But it seems the days of listening to books may come sooner than ever I thought – which would mean those blanketey hearing aids. Ah well. Still alive and kicking and the alternative not yet welcome.

OUCH!!! Recuperating.

According to Garmin Connect, I was in bed for nine hours last night, four hours deep sleep and four hours light sleep. The remaining hour was spent dealing with cramp in one and then the other leg. Too much cycling, too soon, but then that is how I learn my boundaries – by going over them.

I could have gone to the gym around the corner this morning, but I didn’t. Just didn’t. No excuse. Did check the seat on the bike is at the proper height, rearranged placement parking bay. Going to be a hot one. Blinds closed, air-con on. Resting, resting, resting.

Whoever you are, wherever you are – have a good day doing that which most rewards you.

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