I write as a way of processing and reflecting on experience, and as a way of sharing that experience. When I travel I used to write email journals back to friends, family, anyone who’d read and risk immersing themselves in my reality for a while: writing for them was a way of writing for me. Borrowing from Graham Greene in a flip of Travels with my Aunt, I imagined writing letters to my nieces, as their travelling aunt. Crafting the sentences became a way of extruding the experience, giving it birth, drawing its meaning from my soul, nurturing it into something tangible with a life of its own.
The aim of my blog is to open the world to my thought-children, to let them out of the safety of my friends and family and let them experience the world. And in the process I get the honour of taking a larger group with me when I’m wandering around India and beyond, or just reflecting on parallel truths, thinking thoughts that take me to new places new beginnings.
Please journey with me
Every so often I will share my thoughts on the Parallel Truths I find in movies, song lyrics and books that I read. Today’s is a confluence of existential mystical magical angst and love laden thoughts. You see, at the same time that I was reading Jean Paul Sartre’s Concrete Relations with Others I read Laini Taylor’s e-novella Night of Cake and Puppets. An inspired combination. Like chili and dark chocolate.
So I read the dark, convoluted Sartre straight after enveloping my senses in an e-novella about a shy tiny girl luring a violinist to dare to love her. Enticing him on a journey to experience her by following a bespoke treasure map and magic puppets, a journey to love and Mozart and sacher torte in Prague, in the dark, in the snow: pure seduction, pure for-itself anxiety desperate to know how the for-other was seen by the Other and whether she/he could find freedom in being known, being seen and being loved. Oh the agony of fear, the angst when all is inverted and the observed twists the trap and lures his puppetess with music and desire.
A Night of Cake and Puppets had a happier ending than Concrete Relations with Others, but it is fiction. Delectable fiction, black chocolate, dripping fiction. Back to Sartre. Continue reading “Sartre and Sacher torte”
I was so determined this birthday was not going to have a repeat of last year’s crying all over Life of Miss B on returning from India and leaving my heart on the beach. And with all my friends gainfully employed or travelling, the day loomed long and lonely. But we all know there’s nothing like a little productivity and sweat to kick in the protestant work ethic’s feelings of purity at the end of the day. So focused on earning a sunset gin and tonic, with lime, and propelled by well-wishing sms’s arriving from 630 am (god I love daylight savings) I attacked the day.
With Bombay Royale grooving out of the stereo, a load of washing in the machine, and, feeling a little like I was in a warped Sorcerer’s Apprentice remake, armed with a broom and a bucket of warm water I attacked the outdoor furniture. Who could have imagined so many Daddy Longlegs spiders could live in four chairs and one table?
Well the spiders were eradicated (oops bad karma) and the outdoor setting cleaned just as the Korean chimes signaled that my smalls were ready for pegging on the line. That done it was a trip to the eager young man at the hardware store for a brush and a drop sheet – this furniture was going to get oiled. Sadly an unlikely eventuality for the eager young man at the store who one might have liked to imagine lightly oiled, peeling grapes and draped in a toga.
This is not meant to be a blog about rain, or the beach for that matter, but particularly not just about rain.
It’s just that living in Queensland at this time of year, well it can be pretty wet. I’m sitting here listening to the rain which has been falling non-stop for the last twelve hours, knowing my water tanks are overflowing and that next time it eases I need to go open the tap on my worm-farm so my babies don’t drown, and thinking about friends huddled under a cyclone right now, well my mind is drawn back to January 2011. Here’s something I wrote back then.
And do have a listen to Deborah and Willy on ITunes, it’s a beautiful song written for those who died on that January day when the devil himself could have done no more.
The drought broke hard without much warning, it rained, rained, rained
Floods filled the pretty parks, houses and cars float away…
Third Time Down, Deborah Conway & Willy Zygier
Jan 11 3pm
Just letting you all know that my apartment, car and I are surviving the wet so far in Brisbane – tomorrow’s supposed to be the worst so fingers crossed. I know people think Melbourne has lots of rain – I’ve never seen anything like this, certainly not that went on for this many days.Continue reading “Wet … 2011 RIP”
As you will have guessed from Walking in between, I decided to take a few days to let the wind, sand and waves leach the last few months into a new order, and to let the sun melt my bones. Lots to eat, read and better yet kilometres of beach for walking meditation.
One should be precise in the use of language and I did deliberately use the word “leach” hoping the stress and sadness would drain away.
One thanks the weather goddess for making real with adroit precision one’s desire to be leached, cleansed and washed.
One however wishes with due deference to point out that it was meant as a metaphor.
Within half an hour of standing in bright sunlight and expressing a desire to be leached, I was buffeted by a squall. Three guys raced past on kite boards, riding on the tops of great smashing waves, flying with the wind. I gazed seaward facing into the wind and stinging rain. Within moments I was utterly drenched, but smiling under a full rainbow. One cannot complain if the goddess is feeling literal, and your rainbow, well then I knew.Continue reading “Leaching”
I love walking along the beach between ankle and knee deep: although I always get wet well above that!
In the late afternoon the sun dips toward the dunes which rise like a dark wall inland, and it’s last rays just skim across above my head and highlight the very tops of the huge waves way out as they just start breaking in shiny white frothy majesty. And there I walk in the darkening, spray filled tunnel between silent walls of darkness and crashing dynamic walls of light tipped waters. Walls keeping the world at bay.
Walking in the liminal, betwixt, between, out of time. Surrounded, cocooned and safe.