The woman was touching her hair as she spoke, pulling a long silky strand and brushing it nervously over her left ear. If he had known her better he would have recognised it as a sign that she had slipped into the nervous mode of her adolescence.
But of course he did not. On the surface of it she was a self-possessed woman of 38 who had long ago put away the insecurities of youth. He liked that she was mature. He liked her power suit and snappily fresh white collar, He did not wish to sense her anxiety.
“I liked your presentation,” she said formally as she stirred her black coffee vigorously minus sugar or cream.
The compliment slipped off the surface of his mind. But he returned her remark with a self-deprecating ritual of his own.
“Thank you, but what effect it will have remains to be seen.”
He pushed the sugar towards her, seeing that she had a habit of stirring coffee and hoping, though still half-consciously, to brush the tanned hand with his fingertips.
“Hmm,” she sucked the spoon dry, feeling its smooth hot metal against her tongue and smelling the faint odour of his early morning shower still lingering though it was past ten o’clock.
A small silence fell between them as she contemplated him.
“Are you married?” she asked abruptly.
He wanted to raise an eyebrow. But it would not do to laugh at her so soon. He had not thought that she would be so blunt.
“Not much,” he replied, looking into her startled eyes and wrinkling his own to indicate this secret intimacy he shared with her.
“Oh,” she replied abruptly, blushing. “I did not mean it that way. It just seemed to me that what you said to them – about women wanting more of men than they knew how to give – was the kind of remark a married man might hear.”
“Or maybe it’s my take on market research.”
She was not deceived. “Not the terminology for surveys. Unless you’ve been married enough times to have clocked up a representative sample!”
It was out now, he thought. Her interest in him.
He leaned back in the banquette and felt the triumph of a fly fisherman when he feels the lightest brush of a salmon’s mouth against the lure.
“And you?” he asked. “Are you? Have you a partner in this life of pain and struggle?” He said it jokingly, hinting that surely she, being so wholly in control of life as she seemed, could hardly have a life of pain and struggle.
The skin against the bones of her face tightened minutely. “No,” she said bleakly “He died a year ago.”
“Oh.” He was the one now to feel the awkwardness of new encounters. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to be insensitive.”
“How were you to know? I do not wear widow’s weeds.”
But she felt them clinging to her as she swept down the current of her grief briefly once again. She looked beyond her companion into the unchanging vista of a sunlit past.
He laid his coffee cup gently down and gathered his briefcase.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Haiku
Recently I heard on the ABC's Bookshow that in Japan there are hundreds of Haiku clubs where middle aged people are taught the intricacies of this traditional poetic form. I had no idea what the intricacies were other than the 17-syllable format and the fact they should hint at spiritual truths. Apart from the fact that these little verses capture so tightly the essence of natural beauty, I wondered why the Japanese are so addicted to composing them.
Attempting one or two myself, I discover they have the same obsessive fascination as cryptic crosswords and other word games, but rather than mental precision they demand extreme emotional accuracy. Not at all easy ...
Butterfly dancers
in lavender and white sage
belie old men's fears
Attempting one or two myself, I discover they have the same obsessive fascination as cryptic crosswords and other word games, but rather than mental precision they demand extreme emotional accuracy. Not at all easy ...
Butterfly dancers
in lavender and white sage
belie old men's fears
Monday, February 21, 2011
Keywords and other killers of creative life
I know life as we know it would shrivel and die without Google. But there is certainly some collateral damage to our souls now that we live in a digital world.
Today I went to a workshop on medieval manuscript techniques. It was a pleasure to play with colours and gold pens, but more than that, it illuminated my disquiet about our increasing dependence on culture delivered on a flat screen and generated via a keyboard and a mouse.
In the days of illuminated manuscripts, people made their own parchment from animal skins, cut their own quills, made ink from the carbon from lamps, shared the intensive labour with others, and had the fulfillment of knowing that what they were publishing was knowledge of the highest order. No time for wasting your energy and resources on pulp fiction in the C10th. Creativity might have been short on individual expression, but it generated the highest respect because it was only those texts that touched many souls that reached the scriptorium.
Today, however, if I want many souls to spend even a ten second glance at any creative endeavour, no matter how worthy that of respect that might be, it has to be fed into cyberspace. Therein it must survive the keyword gauntlet, the Google censor, NLP marketing and landing page health checks - all before you get to respond to what I have actually created. And even then you won't be able to taste, touch or smell it.
That is why when I hear that bookshops are going the way of the dodo, and girls prefer to buy their dresses touch unseen, I wonder whether we really want life on Earth, or simply a conceptual version of it. I, for one, am not planning to grace Earth next lifetime if I can experience it all in virtual reality, courtesy of Google, from the fleshless comfort of Planet Zog.
Today I went to a workshop on medieval manuscript techniques. It was a pleasure to play with colours and gold pens, but more than that, it illuminated my disquiet about our increasing dependence on culture delivered on a flat screen and generated via a keyboard and a mouse.
In the days of illuminated manuscripts, people made their own parchment from animal skins, cut their own quills, made ink from the carbon from lamps, shared the intensive labour with others, and had the fulfillment of knowing that what they were publishing was knowledge of the highest order. No time for wasting your energy and resources on pulp fiction in the C10th. Creativity might have been short on individual expression, but it generated the highest respect because it was only those texts that touched many souls that reached the scriptorium.
Today, however, if I want many souls to spend even a ten second glance at any creative endeavour, no matter how worthy that of respect that might be, it has to be fed into cyberspace. Therein it must survive the keyword gauntlet, the Google censor, NLP marketing and landing page health checks - all before you get to respond to what I have actually created. And even then you won't be able to taste, touch or smell it.
That is why when I hear that bookshops are going the way of the dodo, and girls prefer to buy their dresses touch unseen, I wonder whether we really want life on Earth, or simply a conceptual version of it. I, for one, am not planning to grace Earth next lifetime if I can experience it all in virtual reality, courtesy of Google, from the fleshless comfort of Planet Zog.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Why bother to write at all?
In recent times I have been devouring books of all shades: some are truly wonderful, others a waste of fallen trees. One of my favourites is Markus Zusak's "The Messenger," a book for young adults. Although it occasionally flirts with schmaltz, the clean poetic language, its honesty and humour, and its page-turning charisma offer a model that any writer might envy. It is also a book that parents and teachers might consider a worthwhile addition to their 15 + kids' reading list
Beyond his craftsmanship, I find Zusak's work exhilarating because it is solidly based in a philosophy of writing that I wish was more honoured in writing for adults. He believes in encouraging the celebration of the whole of life. It is a position that is unpopular among writers, publishers and critics who cater to those people who prefer to see life as a glass half empty, its water polluted, rather than half full and sparkling at that.
But why write anything "creatively" at all unless its ultimate aim is to uplift? It takes a lot of effort and heart to write, so what is the value of entertaining misery that spawns nothing creative except the possible affirmation that survival is somehow worth it? Certainly we need to be informed, but in these days of information overload, we rarely need to learn more about pain; we do not need to be cut by words in order to feel, for most have experienced too many real life cuts.
The emphasis on the dark and dreary in both popular and literary fiction is part of a bigger problem. Inspiration is no longer credible. Perhaps this is because it has been commandeered by ad men. But it is also, I think, because we are encouraged to believe in the End Times by everyone from the makers of disaster movies to environmental activists. Death is nigh: why inspire since promises cannot be fulfilled? Adrenalin rushes are an energy substitute for joy as any reality TV show will show you.
Writers such as Zusak are contributing to a much needed change in attitude by focusing on the power that comes through engaging in creatively in life right Now to find meaning and fulfillment.
However, in these chaotic times, the Now is often a scary place. We do not wish to open our eyes to find the optimistic messages in it. Instead we look backwards for solutions that used to work, and how that past may provide objections to new thinking.
The past has its uses, of course. For those with imagination it provides a glimpse into the wisdom of lives we have forgotten. But it does not supply true meaning in itself, which exists only in the present as the hand grasps the hammer and the heart pumps to strike a blow.
But what if there is nothing to strike but thin air? The world as it is stands takes from both young and elderly people alike the anvil and the iron upon which they make their mark. The significance of meaningful work recedes; family disappears into distance like objects in a telescope, seen but rarely touched; friendship is confined to a regular game of cards washed down with beer.
This is the point that Zusak is making. His young messenger must make the world real through asking questions about the lives of those he observes, and the love they need. The interactions he has with the recipient of his messages makes the both world and himself real and worthy of respect.
The solution to the problem of meaningless cannot lie in social regulation. You cannot legislate for personal meaning. You cannot police it. The answer rests only in those individuals who can recover his or her own meaning, vitality and wonder in life in order to inspire a belief in those possibilities. Each of us must make an acquaintance with that tiger tiger in the night that continues to burn bright in the mind of all but the truly dying if we are to re-make human experience.
It is the spirit of the tiger within that causes me to hope that my words will not be simply an account of another gritty railway station that I am leaving behind in the eternal journey of my consciousness, but a gift that is the departure point for the thrilling journey of others who come after me.
God bless, Zusak and his ilk who support me in this eccentric desire.
Beyond his craftsmanship, I find Zusak's work exhilarating because it is solidly based in a philosophy of writing that I wish was more honoured in writing for adults. He believes in encouraging the celebration of the whole of life. It is a position that is unpopular among writers, publishers and critics who cater to those people who prefer to see life as a glass half empty, its water polluted, rather than half full and sparkling at that.
But why write anything "creatively" at all unless its ultimate aim is to uplift? It takes a lot of effort and heart to write, so what is the value of entertaining misery that spawns nothing creative except the possible affirmation that survival is somehow worth it? Certainly we need to be informed, but in these days of information overload, we rarely need to learn more about pain; we do not need to be cut by words in order to feel, for most have experienced too many real life cuts.
The emphasis on the dark and dreary in both popular and literary fiction is part of a bigger problem. Inspiration is no longer credible. Perhaps this is because it has been commandeered by ad men. But it is also, I think, because we are encouraged to believe in the End Times by everyone from the makers of disaster movies to environmental activists. Death is nigh: why inspire since promises cannot be fulfilled? Adrenalin rushes are an energy substitute for joy as any reality TV show will show you.
Writers such as Zusak are contributing to a much needed change in attitude by focusing on the power that comes through engaging in creatively in life right Now to find meaning and fulfillment.
However, in these chaotic times, the Now is often a scary place. We do not wish to open our eyes to find the optimistic messages in it. Instead we look backwards for solutions that used to work, and how that past may provide objections to new thinking.
The past has its uses, of course. For those with imagination it provides a glimpse into the wisdom of lives we have forgotten. But it does not supply true meaning in itself, which exists only in the present as the hand grasps the hammer and the heart pumps to strike a blow.
But what if there is nothing to strike but thin air? The world as it is stands takes from both young and elderly people alike the anvil and the iron upon which they make their mark. The significance of meaningful work recedes; family disappears into distance like objects in a telescope, seen but rarely touched; friendship is confined to a regular game of cards washed down with beer.
This is the point that Zusak is making. His young messenger must make the world real through asking questions about the lives of those he observes, and the love they need. The interactions he has with the recipient of his messages makes the both world and himself real and worthy of respect.
The solution to the problem of meaningless cannot lie in social regulation. You cannot legislate for personal meaning. You cannot police it. The answer rests only in those individuals who can recover his or her own meaning, vitality and wonder in life in order to inspire a belief in those possibilities. Each of us must make an acquaintance with that tiger tiger in the night that continues to burn bright in the mind of all but the truly dying if we are to re-make human experience.
It is the spirit of the tiger within that causes me to hope that my words will not be simply an account of another gritty railway station that I am leaving behind in the eternal journey of my consciousness, but a gift that is the departure point for the thrilling journey of others who come after me.
God bless, Zusak and his ilk who support me in this eccentric desire.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Dreaming of change
There is a big red spider in my tree. It has whiskers and tiny newborn wings. It is planning to not be a spider. It wants to be a bat. I have no idea why it wants to be a bat, but that is what it wants to be. Its tiny newborn wings are shiny and leathery like a bat's. Its red body is covered with sparse hairs that are not nearly enough to keep a bat warm.
The only thing does not to want to change are its eyes.
Its eyes are large and lustrous and they see things that no other animal can. It likes this aspect of itself but it does not like its bulbous body and its creepy crawly way of scuttling around. It wants to be a bat because there in the darkness of a cave it will be safe from predatory birds. Its hot red body is cumbersome and so it would prefer to fly.
And, if it looks in its tiny looking glass, it sees it has ugly mandibles that stick out where really it would like a smiling bat mouth.
The only thing does not to want to change are its eyes.
Its eyes are large and lustrous and they see things that no other animal can. It likes this aspect of itself but it does not like its bulbous body and its creepy crawly way of scuttling around. It wants to be a bat because there in the darkness of a cave it will be safe from predatory birds. Its hot red body is cumbersome and so it would prefer to fly.
And, if it looks in its tiny looking glass, it sees it has ugly mandibles that stick out where really it would like a smiling bat mouth.
Monday, November 29, 2010
George
I have a wild friend called George. George is a sulphur-crested cockatoo of creative genius. He knows what he wants and how to bend the will of God, namely me, to get it. He and his pals, including an elegant lady companion, have realised I am a soft touch when it comes to handing out a handful of sunflower seeds.
I know I am a sucker. I know it is NOT A GOOD THING to feed wild friends. They become dependent, tear at garden treasures, turn bitter when you fall into the trap of being too kind. It is better to be a capricious God than one whose beneficence can be relied upon unfailingly.
Therefore I devise a strategy. I do not feed George when his friends arrive. I do not feed him every day. I do not feed his wife. I set my dogs to bark through the windowpanes when he lands upon the sitting room sill with excessive demands. He and my dogs are locked in a battle of wills, and if I were a betting woman I would wager my daily bread that George will win.
George sees through every stratagem. He hides his wife upon the roof out of sight until I leave his seeds upon the feeding table. He tells his other mates to go away and in a few short days none appear at feeding time, and if they do they encounter a ferocious objection from George. My dogs occasionally escape the house to bark at his table. They leap with futile enthusiasm at his lazily flapping wings and flaring yellow crest. He dances on his perch with an air of smug tolerance clearly reserved for creatures less savvy than he.
Today he has spied that I live in two rooms. He abandons the sitting room window ledge to speak to me at my study window. He says he hasn’t had enough of my charity today. Bad luck George, I say. Enough is enough. He smiles, cocks his head, beams his desire yet again, And then, recognising that I truly mean what I say, flops away without resentment. Until tomorrow.
I know I am a sucker. I know it is NOT A GOOD THING to feed wild friends. They become dependent, tear at garden treasures, turn bitter when you fall into the trap of being too kind. It is better to be a capricious God than one whose beneficence can be relied upon unfailingly.
Therefore I devise a strategy. I do not feed George when his friends arrive. I do not feed him every day. I do not feed his wife. I set my dogs to bark through the windowpanes when he lands upon the sitting room sill with excessive demands. He and my dogs are locked in a battle of wills, and if I were a betting woman I would wager my daily bread that George will win.
George sees through every stratagem. He hides his wife upon the roof out of sight until I leave his seeds upon the feeding table. He tells his other mates to go away and in a few short days none appear at feeding time, and if they do they encounter a ferocious objection from George. My dogs occasionally escape the house to bark at his table. They leap with futile enthusiasm at his lazily flapping wings and flaring yellow crest. He dances on his perch with an air of smug tolerance clearly reserved for creatures less savvy than he.
Today he has spied that I live in two rooms. He abandons the sitting room window ledge to speak to me at my study window. He says he hasn’t had enough of my charity today. Bad luck George, I say. Enough is enough. He smiles, cocks his head, beams his desire yet again, And then, recognising that I truly mean what I say, flops away without resentment. Until tomorrow.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Forgiveness of things said
IMHO one of the most creative acts of all is forgiveness. It opens the way for new chapters, new life, but it is often very hard. Here are my thoughts on this dilemma.
As you draw your bow, time freezes. All is still.
A predatory silence hangs between us,
as you let fly your unconsidered arrow.
I am rent apart.
Your noisy judgment pierces my flesh
Its barbs infecting my heart until it shrinks,
giving forth a scent of subtle putrefaction,
While I go on smiling as I did before.
What is forgiveness then?
Is it not absurd? A violation of the dignity that pain brings?
Leave these things to God or someone else.
Not me.
Unless I should look upon the Earth herself,
See her ceaselessly clothe old wounds
with grass and trees and new rivers,
Unless I look upon the ageless clouds that change their shape and beauty,
Unless I see new shoots of who I am breaking into sunshine.
As you draw your bow, time freezes. All is still.
A predatory silence hangs between us,
as you let fly your unconsidered arrow.
I am rent apart.
Your noisy judgment pierces my flesh
Its barbs infecting my heart until it shrinks,
giving forth a scent of subtle putrefaction,
While I go on smiling as I did before.
What is forgiveness then?
Is it not absurd? A violation of the dignity that pain brings?
Leave these things to God or someone else.
Not me.
Unless I should look upon the Earth herself,
See her ceaselessly clothe old wounds
with grass and trees and new rivers,
Unless I look upon the ageless clouds that change their shape and beauty,
Unless I see new shoots of who I am breaking into sunshine.
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