nanowrimo

This year I have been strangely absent and preoccupied, participating in an online word battle. The aim  is to write 50,000 within November. So I will be back and blogging again, I've only a few days to go !

Dvorak Simplified Keyboard - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Dvorak Simplified Keyboard - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

sweet spiders

Spiders seem to be the helmet of an awkward moment. As living beings we are obligated to love and respect them, but at the mention of their arrival in the most B grade moment and the people start looking for an exit door. Except in our funny family.
We were driving to school this morning and one of my boys casually mentioned that he woke during the night for a drink. He wandered into the kitchen and noticed a large brown spider on the front of his shirt. We all wanted details; stripes, spots, how many legs, size...and then there was the laughter. 
I still don't understand why people fail to see the beauty in spiders, they are magnificent. We seem to be less afraid of trucks, unstable world leaders and mortgage rates. I'd trust a spider more than a person with a need for power or attention, but then, sometimes the profile is not so obvious.
In case you were worried, my son didn't get bitten, he thought it was wonderful.                 

the echo and eclipse

I don't believe in falling in love.
Some years ago there was a movie called 'Music from Another Room'. One character described love 


You know how when you're listening to music playing from another room? And you're singing along because it's a tune that you really love? When a door closes or a train passes so you can't hear the music anymore, but you sing along anyway... then, no matter how much time passes, when you hear the music again you're still in exact same time with it. That's what it's like. 


Too long ago I was pottering about in a share house and heard the soundtrack to 'Against the Wind'. I froze and for a time was lost in another soul space. I knew someone who lived in those notes, but I had never met him, and at the time he was on the other side of the world.

I learnt to play 'Six Ribbons' on the piano...I can't play anything else, but that song mattered.
When I did meet him, I didn't notice what his hair was like, his clothes or anything changeable. I could hear the music, sense the celtic pulse and raw spirit.
I still don't believe in falling in love, but I know I have.       

a few words from my dog, Dougal.

1. Never accept rejection.
No matter how much someone may scream and flap, that lap is yours.

2. Stoical is not a word, neither is stoic a stable adjective.
The hidden angora blanket is yours.

3. Cleaning will not make you a spiritual person, dreaming will.

Overemphasis on spots and smells defines you as a cat.

4. Smile when it's not natural.

If you think this is difficult as a humanoid, it's moreso as a kelpie/corgie.

5 Explore the assumptions of royal duties.

If you are a 2 legged being, you will probably have little royal value. Corgies, on the other hand, should hold their head high.

6. Never underestimate the beauty of a lost sock.

7. Life without sole is boring.

Gather shoes on your bed, regardless of their original owner's screams and possessive carry on.

8. If you appear to be the same height standing and resting, rest more. But nurture the self worth of a big dog.

9. Choose to hear 'Dougal what are you doing NOW!' as an exclamation of wonder, not a question.

10. That's not a bone, this is a bone!

Negotiating a 3 metre bone and a 1 metre dog flap is only a matter of time and courage. Good bones taste better indoors.

writing in November

I am deliriously excited about writing next month. Some people go shopping, play in the garden, or sing but I love to raise a character, make them brilliant and loved and then hurt them hard.

The most huggable part of the story usually comes from a world view, a place where everybody has known that pain and may or may not recover.
So, at the moment I am packing for the journey; yoga suits, a new teapot, lovable coffee, plenty of sleep, details and moments and visits to my pear tree. That reminds me that bundles of sticks do break forth into beautiful leaves, blossom and fruit when there was no obvious evidence.
I don't have a muse, I think my busy daydreaming noggin is enough fuel for the distance. I do have happy dances stored up in the arena of my grey zones. I do have background music sorted; my family...drums, banjo, guitar, singing.     

Forums -

Forums -

What is NaNoWriMo? | National Novel Writing Month

What is NaNoWriMo? | National Novel Writing Month

Life before the dawn

Last night I slept all night, naturally.
 It doesn't sound that exciting until you miss several nights without even a nap. Then you start to wonder and of course start to Google; how long can you go without sleep....before you die *nine days*. It seems like forever and the loneliest path. Reflexes and recall are fragile, resources are few. People who went for records in staying awake usually chose to stay awake, to find that the body fatigued earlier than the will. But after nine days,
Different things start to matter, and like a trapeze artist reaching for hoops and hands, trust is invaluable.
This morning I heard that today's Aussie mum will prefer surgical over natural childbirth as more dignified.
My daughter and I had a conversation days ago over why we endure pain during birth. The outcome is beautiful, I told her. You can't gather the strength for that day until you are there. The memory of pain and tiredness passes quickly.
We had photos of me being brave; holding an eagle.
How to relax; pictures of our cat asleep.
No pictures of the child we couldn't see, but trust because of the weight I had carried, the movement I had felt.
Knowledge; because of the women who had been there.
Confidence in the person I had been, in trials before.
And each child is worth so much more than the problem of pain.

So why do you face a night of sleeplessness,
because somewhere I knew that person was still within me.
She could still make distances.
 Something would break the cycle of fear and worry.
I haven't lasted eight days, so I could try at three or five. I could forgive naps.
It's not something I would try because I could boast a record, but I know I survived it.

Sasha's Lamentations

She has little to say
 but continues to rev a noisy impact on her environment.
She mutters again, that she will not be at peace until I become,
the prolific author that is part of the street somewhere ahead,
she says.  
On that day,
she knows that I may stop pacing and dreaming,
however, probably not.
She knows I will always be one to pace and dream,
always searching through the sandcastle gardens in the sky
 for seeds that tumble forth that story.
 And Sasha would never refer to them as 'little stories',
for as a cat she knows the offence and maddening memory
 of an inappropriate diminutive.
She trusts that one of these hunted seeds
 will grow with the breath and hope that warmed the germ, 
and alarmed the general.
Sasha knows that if an idea has heavenly breath,
it has no choice but to stretch, groan and wade through the places of doubt and fear. Everything changes, when you are a cat.
If you raise your chin,
the world asks questions of power.
People  fall foul fretting over fear fed by foes.
Alert listless listeners foil the poor puss.
In vain they assume depth of thought.
Sasha would say that the introvert has all power,
as the mountain has volume in her echo,
so the thinker sheds life from doubt.
So, she tells me, my concerns will bear bounty,
the most lonely thought that escapes can fill any possible wonder.
Dream on,
says Sasha, 
make them deliver.        

I'm worth a million dollars~~~$

The Melbourne show, is a microcosm of wailing walls, global warming, shrieking and gnashing of teeth. This circus allows sensory overload, to any straggly olfactory nerve that missed the escape clause.

I don't like crowds. 

I love people.

As a writer, I have the opportunity to stalk every Nanna and Grandad in their brave efforts to merge with this extraordinary young loud generation, and introduce them to even more noise.

Nana is causing considerabel damage to shins and toes all around due to a pristine Babyco stroller carrying George. George is covered in bubble gum, fairy floss and opinions.

'I'm Booooored!'

`Orright, we're going to do something. Look, there's something, yay!'

George has found more decibels and semidigested over-processed food to underline his point.

"I doesn't want to see wood choppers!'

The debate faded as my gentle observant daughter followed me into the lifestyle Paviliouns. There are refuges, there are people who whisper and smile and remind you that much of the day will be enjoyed in the memory.

The memory of a day with my favourite girl, surveying faces, savouring smells, sidestepping the crush.

I came home with a million dollar memory.

                     

notes within notes

The    one person I love to spend time with knows me better than I know myself, remembers what I need remembered and sees through my masks. There are no trademarks but plenty of watermarks that define him when held up to the light, and within that light he is at his most beautiful. The most important reflection of him, is his music. All things he does well and strives high, but in his music you feel his happiness. At anytime of the day he will gather up heartworn pages that spell out the melodies our home knows and spills. He has sung these to each of the children growing up and hums them in the garden. So, when he has an instrument that peals out his favourites, I stop and listen. I may write in the same room but I have to be there to feel the breath and passion that goes with his talent.                          

dead sticks

Months ago I bought  a bundle of uninteresting sticks  at the Caribbean Gardens . The voluble vendor assured me that within months we would have beautiful pears bowing low. I am not known for successful gardens but I do like pears so I struggled 4 ' healthy brown kindling and found a focal point in the front garden.
And here, do you sing sweetly to these brown dead sticks and believe that all things are possible and wow aren't the rains bringing out the blossom and flowering trees that we anticipate every year,
But weeks flew past and my sticks were swollen in some appendages but it could't have been the magnification of the raindrops, or me pouring my most encouraging growth sonnets into that ...brown.

BUT!, today, a small fluffy white blossom placed a sign out, 'come in for tea'.
My dead sticks found colours within to fill previously vapid substance to become my first pear of the season.

a few words from my dog, Dougal.

1. Never accept rejection.
No matter how much someone may scream and flap, that lap is yours.

2. Stoical is not a word, neither is stoic a stable adjective.
The hidden angora blanket is yours.

3. Cleaning will not make you a spiritual person, dreaming will.

Overemphasis on spots and smells defines you as a cat.

4. Smile when it's not natural.

If you think this is difficult as a humanoid, it's moreso as a kelpie/corgie.

5 Explore the assumptions of royal duties.

If you are a 2 legged being, you will probably have little royal value. Corgies, on the other hand, should hold their head high.

6. Never underestimate the beauty of a lost sock.

7. Life without sole is boring.

Gather shoes on your bed, regardless of their original owner's screams and possessive carry on.

8. If you appear to be the same height standing and resting, rest more. But nurture the self worth of a big dog.

9. Choose to hear 'Dougal what are you doing NOW!' as an exclamation of wonder, not a question.

10. That's not a bone, this is a bone!

Negotiating a 3 metre bone and a 1 metre dog flap is only a matter of time and courage. Good bones taste better indoors.

savage bunnies

This bunnie was given to me on the day of my birth. Nobody else loved him, threw him, dressed him, stitched him or named him. As my vocabulary was limited, 'Bunnie' he was to remain. He had no sharp edges, harsh comments up his sleeve, he was all an inanimate friend could be.
BUT he had feelings too and and like the rest of the race, he hated crowds, gossip and people who disturb my sleep. Bunnie knows the story of my secrets, the mismatched cottons that slowed the rate of evisceration.
Bunny lives another year as the small girl's heart salve.

a likely story

Today I took a voluntary stroll into a conniption.  It was timely as I'm putting together a manscript about our need to be connected, the heart of friendship within unexpected places. I described the destination to my best friend, who set out describing the journey with contours and expectations. I never notice hills and details until I'm there, I explained. The conversation resembled one of Winnie-the-Pooh and his friend Piglet. We understood our own perspectives but the truth was I have a terrible history of being lost with maps. 'I need landmarks' I kept saying. It didn't make sense to the friend who knew me better than anyone.

 So during the the journey I watched for landmarks to take me home, like breadcrumbs. I started to understand why I was writing the story I had started; every page you walk is a strange place until you mark it. Until you write your name and feelings about it, it will be foreign. If you find your own map, you scale your own pictures, the horrible book of lions and squares, loses it's power to suffocate you. And if you breathe, you smile and you're home.

                    

My Favourite all time book,

is usually the one I am reading. I have a few shelves of best friends, but it depends on how cosy they are in the right moment. My dream is to write that book that will offer a safe world to a child, bring out the shelter and new friends when life is set upon sending in the enemy.
I was constantly interviewing the author...what was your home like? did you write in a cold room, so you didn't fall asleep? did you know you would be published, or just hope? did you scribble down notes in scrap books, or were you organized with lists and maps? Who hurt you? Did this story start out as something else?

I have just crashed a 40,000+ manuscript because it was boring me. It is now married to another 7,000 piece that needed a friend. I don't know if it will ever smile at people from a shop shelf or if anybody will care that it caused me so much heartache. Maybe, nobody will care or mind that I bashed up something that they read as precious.
This morning I took my cat to the groomer. I am capable of grooming her myself but she has drawn so much blood, in spite of a towel, in spite of all my calming words, that she will need you be knocked out. As I drove her in, I told her how much I wanted to remove the fur-balls and would never hurt her...and she growled.

I would never leave her with the matted fur, and I could never leave a manuscript with boring bits. The compromise of bringing in another player was my last hope for a smooth ride.

the smallest in the best of us.

Few words have power to be ugly in any situation; somewhere they shine, somewhere they contribute. The inappropriate diminutive screams a hollow whine that begs audacity. I can't sit beneath the words... poor little thing, little nap, little home, little friend without white-knuckling the fading remains of the conversation. Does the speaker really use this to prove their own power or greatness? Or is it a left over sensitivity murmuring from my own height. Nobody who has stayed awake through the night would doubt the value of a brief sleep. The man without a home has different scales for any shelter.
I don't think of myself as short and am always surprised when any reference is made. I still think trivial chat belongs to those without depth or colour, and find myself looking for a door, big or small.
Within my own wonderland, time and comparisons are found only in the reflection of strange places and people who babble on about time and achievement. Nobody refers to a diamond or pearl as little, only to their perceived quality. The little ocean, little nation, little greed, little panic only tells us that somebody is short sighted and has missed the distress, the volume.
It bounces about rooms and papers with painless smiles, only to reply in a echo that the observer was a tourist. They hadn't smelt or felt the reality because they missed the purpose of soaking, trusting and embracing the greatness possible; in the stone, the sleep, the moment.         

one day, far away...

The reason I write is the reason I read as a small child, and as a short adult. So many truths were hidden by white noise, fashions and castles. With every breath of hope, promises were broken. Token friendships in the playground and neighbourhood felt as rich as the smiles, but then fell out. Nobody had any answers. Not that would tell,
But at night, nobody  spoke, pages under torchlight opened new places and spaces and opportunities. I had the choice to turn the page or close the book, but it all seemed like such a beautiful adventure. Even the sad moments displayed some key to walking through the next day. There was always the chance of repair. Simple typed words all in that hideous Times New Roman, filled stitched paper with anything I wanted. I could paint the faces, paint the walls, plant the garden and nobody would stop me. Books didn't tell me I was lying or dreaming or too quiet or chatty, they followed my call.
And then there were the moments of relief. Paths of tears resolved unrealistically, rarely sensibly, just to offer my mind the chance that life was worth the friendship.  

Bright Lights

I did an assessment on my personality and temperament to be told that I am an extreme introvert. As is usually the case, I didn't need to do a quizz to learn this. I wanted to be told. For somebody who hates crowds, tears up within noisy chatter, my work space is Life on Mars. I love people, that works for me. Each morning as I walk out into the clouds cuddling the mountain, I am hit by a blast from the splintering street lights.  They are not my friends, neither do they navigate because the burns to frayed places push me away from 
any call for help.

Achilles bleeds to attest defeat,
that bristles and blunders 
within the dawn.
Who will cool such aching feet,
wry, blistered ,
pressed on thorns.
A burnt out seeker
appeals dark eyes,
but dares not reach the pain,
as wanderers in search of hope, 
touch each mirage in vain.

why work the hours
when most must rest, 
yet few break breath and blood.
So hurt beyond your learned pace, 
as hope deceives the dream with mud.
Who dares to dream,
must flirt with fate,
forgive your fears,
as you wait, alone.
Each star alight,
sings odes of hope,
softly breaks the heart of stone.

That darkest moment, 
threatens hours that 
tempt us to see black.
No trust or promise
to fulfil could
stop us turning back
then heavy eyes
sweet with despair, 
look up to find the coal, 
those promised gases 
break the char, 
our story will be told

The Quest over Beauty

I grew up with a sister who was ten years older than me. She had all the beauty, appeal and style that big sisters should have. As a little sister, my task in life was obviously to learn from her.
There was evidently a stage in my life when I couldn't read, though I can't remember it. To hear a story before the sun had risen was difficult, as my sister would pretend to be asleep. Even after whispering, shoving and pulling the blankets off her she lay like a corpse. So, I would gently peel open her eyelids and stare into them with a smile. Realizing it was me with books under my arms, she stayed frozen.
'I know you're awake!' I'd announce, and after a bit of carry on, I'd get my story.
We were fortunate to have two phones in the house, so when boys called I was able to listen and learn how teens stumbled about asking a girl for a date. If they hadn't been so funny I wouldn't have been discovered and they wouldn't have had the opportunity to hear her interesting views on having a Little Sister.
If the conversation lasted long enough, the Brave may have decided to overlook her temper and go out with her. That was always fun. I negotiated piggy-back rides, riddles, more stories and games as the Brave waited in the lounge for MY Big Sister to emerge. As they sat doing the Boring Polite Conversation with my parents, I escaped to return dressed up in all her prettiest bras and undies. Yet again, the class was dismissed as she fed me volumes on her thoughts about me.
Sex education should always come from the Big Sister. How and when is usually best through windows of opportunity. We were in the public toilet/shower block at a very popular Melbourne Beach. She sat me up on the bench as she opened her make-up case to Do her face. As I explored the case contents I found a box with white things wrapped in cellophane.
"Are these lollies?'
'No, leave my stuff alone,' and she continued gooing her eyes.
As I unwrapped them I found they were fluffy if you pulled them apart and had strings attached.
I was just starting to enjoy swinging them about in circles when she slammed the lid shut, burst into tears and dragged me out through the masses of sandy, giggling, surfettes.
There were so many questions I still needed to ask her. Something in that perfect face told me, my searching was part of me, but my timing was...out.

jill in the middle

Big sister, Little sister and my fairy Godmother

the Questor at 4 years old

is it a bird?

In a world where tolerance and political correctness have been exalted as flags of honour, one quiet but gentle community appears to have been overlooked. You see, there is no point in having a vehicle with which to explore the wild, wild woods without a place of reflection for the beauty within the trees.

If all you brought home was the boast that you had been there, then you have nothing to offer those who have never seen a tree.
The arborist will speak of the structure, growth and health, but possibly not listen to the panic as each leaf loses colour and connection, falling and failing in her natural progression of seasons.
The artist will give an image you may keep, respecting form, shades and shadows, without pouring the picture of isolation into a page that makes you ache.
The teacher stirs a passion to understand the balance, variety, details and history. The banker will evaluate the financial value in removing the trees and evolving a community, the environmentalist will debate the banker, the Politician will make a party out of it and a local Cop may arrest them all. The believer encourages faith that even without argument, there is a reason and outcome for each aspect of the forest. The musician will offer harmony to the ensuring ballad.
And around the fringes, sensing every mood, betraying every belief, systematically sweeping stony steps, screaming inside because nobody is listening to them or understanding them or even noticing that their feelings had been shattered by the volume of the crowd, that they felt the crushed leaves, and heard the weeping willows, are the depths of the turbulent inner world of the...
don't accuse them of carrying on, somebody has to be taking notes on the vacuous vanity because one day it may be read, and appreciated, if anybody would...
stop lecturing them on diet, smoking, nail-biting and whining,
they are not paranoid but maybe tired of being misunderstood and feeling as if nobody cared.

Storytelling

"If you don't know the trees you may be lost in the forest, but if you don't know the stories you may be lost in life." 

In a time before paper, storytelling was imbibed as a draught purer than breath. The teller was revered as someone who had skipped the waves and survived, and therefore could help the listeners dance through the currents. Words were too beautiful to write and the lessons too important to be forgotten or lost. Our first stories were probably not on paper, but through song and faces. Eventually the longing to copy people around us draws us into a quiet corner of letters and pictures. 
And then there's the library; silence and myriad faces head down in a world where no-one is invited, allowed or dares to tread. Every books listener is unique and the thoughts and comfort within can't be described.
Who dares to create these places? Those who are certain of success? Or those who believe.

If it brought such beauty and relief once, it could again. If it answered hidden questions, undid the heart's wonders and built fresh possibility...it should happen again, and will.

to sleep perchance

What is it about writers and sleep? Are we afraid of missing the most needed story in history, or staying awake mulling over details... Is it the consequence or concern bled from too much reading by torchlight, an over-active imagination, or being hard-wired to dream awake...
Being a night shift worker I am more concerned about being woken by ring-tones, as normal people try to call me in their daylight. It's a strange world where some fall off the wall of consciousness at the mention of sleep, and others remain awake for nights on end. Nobody will die from insomnia, and possibly the greatest fiction lurks like gemstones in the harsh darkness of a weary mind. No grief, pain, excitement or suggestion can burn the soul like endless hours of pondering and oblique distraction.
So with frazzled distraction, you finally decide to stay up and write for a few hours but some far off rooster will call you to the real world two hours after you have fallen from chaos. 
Consoling yourself that you are not average, destined for greater things is some comfort until you land in a zone where days, weeks and years have been swallowed by bright headlights and snoring neighbours...and no great things are on the horizon other than reality.
And then, there is that sweet possibility that the next page written erases the distraction of blurred faces, missed appointments and bumbling though daylight hours. The warm buzz from realizing your words work, even for some. Maybe the savour of a life inside life, eyes into the other worlds is its own reward, to be cherished rather than chastised and dismantled.

Superman, and that secret wardrobe

'She is either a Clark or a Kent'.

I stared at the laughing adults, my only frame of reference in a fast moving world. We had a new house, grumpy neighbourhood, strange school, and information was being hurled faster than it could stick. Pennies had changed to coins with animals on them. I knew my big sister had started a new job, and had collections of the old coins, but I couldn't remember what she was doing. Her new wardrobe was exciting but I knew I wasn't supposed to be living in it.
School was weird; the teacher loved the fact that a Preppie could read well, but was not happy that I wouldn't stand up the front and read. My place at the Prep table had the wrong name on it. I didn't have a bag hook. I couldn't remember names, directions or find happiness.
But, words caught attention. If I read, or spoke or wrote, people turned. I was so tiny for five, that any progress grew smiles. I was never told what my sister did when she went to work. I couldn't remember her title, but it sounded impressive. I knew she had created a world of beautiful clothes that took me away from the vulnerabilities of the reality. That mattered. Somehow when nothing added up to answers, having a superhero about, created safety. I could only relay that with words.