By Meg's Pen

Her Father's Daughter by Alice Pung

2012-02-01T00:04:00.000+11:00

Alice, you have kept me awake into the wee hours of the night. You have managed to put together yet another brilliant book, a memoir, a story of you and your father. You are truly a brilliant writer.

Her Father's Daughter is a more serious book than her first book, Unpolished Gem, yet Alice's fragrant Australian, Cambodian, Chinese flavour flows so well with humour, dry wit and at many moments, the utter truth of the story that she carried me along this incredibly personal journey of her family.

Her Father's Daughter begins with Alice stepping off the bus in China, in the town that her family have come from, before Braybook, in Western Melbourne and before fleeing Cambodia. She is wanting to understand her roots, her father more. Alice doesn't find what she expected in China, but when she returns and spends more time with her father, talking with him, listening to the stories, to the difficult stories of living the Black Bandits and having to flee death and persecution from the Pol Pot ("Political Potential") regime. This part of the story is written in his voice and hers, allowing us to gain insight into what she thinks her father may have been thinking during during her time during university and beyond. This helps give some perspective to Kuan, her father, through his stories and those of his friends.

Alice tells the terrible story of the Year Zero so well, giving me so much understanding into the tragic unfolding of the events before and after 17 August 1975 when life as all in Phnom Penm knew it was to change forever. She writes it in an incredibly respectful way that show the pain and loss the Cambodians went through as she follows the story of her father and his extended family from before Year Zero until they escaped to the refugee camp on the border of Thailand.

Many of those who made it out vowed that they would never set foot in that country again. After reading what the people were put through, I can understand more clearly the trauma that they would have felt. This story gives so much insight into the plight of so many people whose lives are suddenly turned upside down, and how this affects them forever.

Thank you again Alice for a brilliant, brilliant, brilliantly told story that was well worth being told. 10 / 10.

Kuan, thank you for sharing your story.

No need to rush things...

2012-01-31T23:21:00.002+11:00

So, finally, as the first month comes to a roaring finish ("Already" I hear myself scream as I suddenly realise that I have a bill due TODAY that I forgot because today should be tomorrow, not today. How did that happen?), I have settled on my goals for the year. I don't like to rush things.

"Only Fools Rush In"

So, if you can bear with me, here they are, my goals, as I said in my previous post (mostly) SMART goals, laid out bare (some are quite boring mind you):

1. Write a review of each book I read (in a timely manner, not like the "Why Weren't We Told" by Henry Reynolds, which is staring at me, waiting for me to say something. I think that it said so much to me that I am finding it difficult to review. I just need to do it and stop putting it off).

2. Read 2 books per month (so far I have accomplished this. Let's see if I can keep it up when it is not summer holidays)

3. Lower the migraines from over 15 days per month to less than 5 days per month. This will take a lot of work on lifestyle, relaxation and drug management, good dedicated work, hopefully.

4. Shrink the waistline to 80cm or less (I had to have a "lose weight" one).

5. Fix up the bathroom and kitchen. The tiles are falling off and we need some cupboards that have doors on them so I can stop looking at everything all the time.

6. Write at the library or cafe (ie not in the house) twice a week. After 6 months of doing at home, I think that I now need to break it up a little. Out might be good.

7. Finish Dip of Project Management. Once the kids go back to school, I might be able to think again, much higher chances of getting this done.

8. Exercise (ie cardio for 30 min) 3 times a week (yep, there it is again...)

9. Start a writer's group weekend retreat (perhaps quarterly) with some other likely characters. There have been some murmurings with a friend from my Wednesday monthly group, so there is one, we may roll along and collect a couple more.

10. Spend some time in the garden every week. It needs me, I need it. We are co-dependants.

11. Start volunteering 1/2 day every week. I have found a great group who work with Asylum Seekers and really need volunteers and am 2/3 through their training now. Yippee!

12. Give some time back to me, by writing myself & things I want to do into the family calendar...we'll see how that goes...!

Twelve things, twelve months, how tidy is that?

Oh, one more to mess things up,

13. Get more organised, be more organised, put systems in place so that I am not covered in paper and surprised by late bills or other nasties... (Surely that is a given with yearly goals if you are not suffering from OCD).

Tra la la la... Here we go, into February!

The Summer Without Men by Siri Hustvedt

2012-01-16T22:03:00.001+11:00

This is the first book that was selected for my book club this year, and when I first heard the title, my first feeling was of relaxation. I was imagining a time of women sitting around exchanging ideas, being free of the shackles of men, dancing, rejoicing, reading books under the shade of a tree...and no mention of men. In some ways, I was rewarded with this. When my oldest son (12yrs) saw the title, he shuddered saying, "Urgh, I could think of nothing worse." Well, there you go, I live in a house full of men, I would delight in it, I think.

This book is the follows Mia, the poet, and her ramblings (in a great way) as she tries to mend her shattered heart and mind. She is coming to terms with her husband, Boris, making the decision to have a "Pause" after 30 odd years. A lovely young French woman aptly takes on the name in Mia's voice as "Pause", we learn nothing more of her. Mia has been thrown so far from her place of comfort that she has a moment of temporary insanity whilst Boris takes up with the Pause. To recover after her time in the hospital, Mia seeks shelter amongst women, her mother, her sister, teaching poetry to young teenage girls and doing book club with elderly women. Through these interactions Mia begins to find her strength again as she reflects on her relationship and the damage that the Pause has had on her. Her daughter Daisy desperately tries to pull her parents back together, like so many children of broken relationships do. Siri deals with this reality so well.

In the elderly women (The Swans), Mia finds an unusual, yet lovely surprise in Abagail as secrets unfold in the most unusual ways. Mia also finds herself in the midst of a teenage whirlwind with a bad smell. She uses what she knows best to work through this - writing. It proves to be a very useful tool.

I loved the cross generational relationships in this book and how they are so important to each other, the wisdom, the youth, the reminders to each other and they can help each other. Siri reminds us how important it is to have these cross generational relationships.

For a book titled "The Summer Without Men" I wasn't expecting so much referencing to the men in her life and other's lives. Early on I found it distracting. On reflection, however, this was the reality of Mia's life, Boris had been such an important part of her life, she could not live a summer with mentioning him, thinking of him every day.

The book itself is a great read and a short read. Siri has Mia writing to the reader in a lyrical prose, best read quickly in longer sittings rather than little grabs. I am looking forward to a re-read as I think that this book actually warrants it, and I now know that I will set aside the time to read it in large chunks than the little moments at bedtime that I did.

Man

2012-01-14T19:04:00.002+11:00

The inspiration for this came from my lovely husband, who I do love with all of his crash banging around! Love to know what you think. Cheers, Meg

Man
Big Hands
Squashing things,
Clumsy Fingers,
Breaking Glasses,
Chipping Plates,
Smashing Bottles,
Crash Bang

Man
Strong and bolshy,
Moving with thump and thud
Door shutting,
Pictures rattling,
Chair scraping
Like fingernails on a blackboard
Books chucked down
Bending covers and pages
Crash Bang

Man
A rough, loving kiss
Tightly hugging,
Bruising ribs with love
Slapping thigh with laughter,
Hand being held,
'Don't squeeze so hard'
Massaging,
Therapy.
Crash Bang

Man
Toilet seat flung
Whack
Toilet seat down
Whack
Crash Bang

Man
Made of giant
All delicates hiding
From big fingers and hands
Fragile old tea-cup found
Now balancing precariously
Between two fat sausages
With saucer waiting below
Quietly, patiently, not breathing
Lest the Man giant
Be broken from this
Gentle spell, for now.

Great Expectations and All That Nonsense

2012-01-12T11:11:00.000+11:00

I usually begin each year with my set of goals for each of the areas in my life: health, learning, house, fitness, travel, and so forth, yet last year, I didn't. I had no goals. I began the year goal-free and survived. I got through, I didn't necessarily kick huge successes, yet I didn't "fail" or fall in a heap. I did feel at some stages, however, that I was floundering. There was no post out there for me. I had to keep putting goal posts out there.

In the wash up I have taken a long time to "debrief" myself and my year as I have trawled through my diary, picking out the important bits, the quotes, the unfinished business (yes, I am still a paper-leather-bound-diary-no-ipod girl). It has felt like an important thing to do after what has seemed like a really hard year. A year that saw me grieving people, freedom, loss of innocence of my children as they get slightly older and more bolshy, loss of our tightly knit family unit that we had experienced the year before, accepting increase in pain (migraines, back and jaw) after a year of being relatively well managed (we travelled in the outback and bush for 9 months - read "freedom"). That being said, great things have happened along the way. I got myself some great part-time work along the way after being out of the workforce for over a decade, I studied and completed a diploma (I have a history of never finishing courses for many reasons, none of which being that I didn't want to finish), I made the decision to spend more time writing, just writing (YAY!) and I was really happy to see my kids settle back in to schooling life after a nomadic year.

So, I have been debriefing, and realising that I actually need to set myself goals for the year otherwise I have a tendency to drift with the breeze and go with really short term goals. I get frustrated with myself and that then filters through to my little family.

I am taking my time with this goal setting. I no longer feel the pressure that I used to of the date 1 January. For me now it is more about "Where am I now, and where do I want/need to be in a year's time?"

I have broken it up into the different areas of my life:

And as I am visual/colour person, I see each of these areas in different colours, and circles. I have to pop them in circles and then write what I want/need to be in this year in these areas. It is helping me to get some focus in this crazy world where my needs sometimes seem to be the last ones on the agenda.

So, from here, I have been trying to make some SMART goals (specific, measurable, achievable, realistic time bound) so that I am not either setting myself up for failure or not putting any challenge out there. I think so often we put goals out there at this time of year that are unrealistic like, "I am going to deal with every piece of paper as soon as it comes into the house. No piece of paper is going to lie on any bench." (yes, this was one of my goals one year), and then 3 months in, the bits of paper start to accumulate, a bit of self flagellation goes on, then give up...have set oneself up for failure. Probably more realistic for me would be to decide to set up a system to deal with the bits of paper. I also think that it would unrealistic for me to set the goal of getting a book published this year, but I have to seriously look at how I can put the challenge stick out there for myself so that I don't get mushy and do nothing. Goals are great for pushing me along, getting me out of my comfort zone.

I love the idea of getting to the end of the year and looking back at the goals with a smile and feeling like I have kicked some goals and grown within myself.

Watch this space as I continue to refine...

What are your goals, do you make goals, how do you go about it? Cheers, Meg

The Versatile Blogger Award

2012-01-11T15:17:00.000+11:00

As the new year dawned and I was preoccupied with my boys in sun and sand, Tiffany from My Peculiar Journey kindly gave me The Versatile Blogger Award for this blog. I am humbled.

The Rules for excepting the illustrious Versatile Blogger Award are as follows:

Thank the person who nominated you. Tell 7 things about yourself, so that your readers may learn more about you, and nominate 15 other newly discovered bloggers, then let them know you nominated them.

Here are 7 things about myself

1. I love silence.
2. I like to figure stuff out myself before looking at the instructions, instructions are for when things haven't worked out.
3. I play the flute.
4. I read until I fall asleep - every night (and drive my husband insane).
5. I am at peace when I am in the garden with my fingers in the dirt, I love to grow vegetables and local indigenous plants and write about them.
6. I love to create things from scratch
7. I am a naturally messy person, I have to work continuously at being tidy.

And most importantly nominate 15 other newly discovered bloggers.

For the moment I have chosen 13 blogs for various reasons (some are well into their blogging life and I really enjoy what they offer to me and I am sure to many, many others and have not yet received the award, others are fairly new, but I really like what I think that they have to offer) and will choose the other 2 as I find them (if I do).

The last one on the list has stated recently she may not be back this year. I think that she really deserves the award anyway due to the wonderful blog that she has done and I wish her the best.

1. Hanner Cymraes...means half Welsh woman,

2. The Hipster Files

3. Merry Wanderer of the Night

4. A Writer's Life

5. Anecdotal Anna

6. Soul Wings

7. The Rhythm Method

8. Fleur McDonald

9. Quilt of Dragonflies

10. Madmother

11. Too Askew

12. FUSION: Fabric, Paper, Stitch

13. eclectique

Thanks again Tiffany for thinking of my little blog this award :)

Good Dog Bad Dog, One Lost Child

2011-12-08T12:50:00.001+11:00

This is something that I wrote in my WednesdayWorkshop with Emilie Collyer. The probe was to write a poem as if it was a newspaper article or vice versa, not to think too much, and to go with the first idea.

I was really struck with something I had read in the paper that morning (and when it had happened) and a kerfuffle at the Sunshine Magistrates Court the day before with loads of media there (not really sure that this is what they were there for, however it did make me think of this family).

Family rallies around torn shreds of child

Mauled by dog

Now held on rod

Community now ripped apart

Good dog and bad

The owners are barking out loud

Foam frothing at mouth

Reports flow in from o' abroad

The barking gets louder

With teeth all bared

Men in suits murmur

And shake their heads

Conflicting thoughts, O', what to do

A family now with one less to hold

Stands closely with their dark skin

Fled had they from war torn lands

To be free from suffering

And Warlord Kings

A bark now frightens them more than they could 'er know

Good dog, bad dog

Who will know.

Time to think about gifts and all that jazz

2011-11-08T15:12:00.003+11:00

I went to the osteo this morning, as I tend to about once a month or so for a chin wag and so that he can put my neck, back & jaw back into place, and we got onto the topic of Christmas. He was talking about a study he had just heard about by St Vincent de Paul who found that a huge number of people get given really crappy, junky presents that they really didn't want anyway and would have rather have been given a charity present.

I think that it is a really timely reminder as I have a few (well quite a lot) of nieces & nephews, kris kringles to do, and it is really easy to just get a "junky-little-something", when it just ends up in the bin the next week. There are so many options now to do better than that. There are second hand fantastic gifts to give, there are charity gifts that are giving money to the charity to do something wonderful with, and a token (maybe a card, or a pin, etc) for the person.

Oxfam, World Vision and Tear are some of the bigger ones that provide us with "really useful gift ideas" that won't clutter up people's houses with another ornament that they don't want and I am sure that if I keep scratching the surface (or surfing the net) there will be a bunch more. Just find the one that speaks to you most. There are also some great toys and other gift ware that are made by people in third world countries and the money will go straight back into their communities - fair trade choices. If you don't like shopping on the internet, there is always the Community Aid Abroad shops. They always have great stuff, then there are the local school art fairs, or local art/farmers markets or local shops that stock well made things.

I think that given the state of affairs in the world right now, giving less presents that mean more may mean that it is a slightly more important Christmas present.

Reading by Moonlight: How Books Saved a Life by Brenda Walker, reviewed

2011-11-06T00:09:00.000+11:00

"This whole plot, - the beginning, middle and end - had been lived before by others, but I had to live through it myself to understand it, to know that agony can be an analgesic, that the memory of pain can itself be a painkiller. " Paul Theroux in The New Yorker as quoted in Brenda' book

Brenda Walker's book, "Reading by Moonlight: how books saved a life", is ultimately about Brenda's journey of breast cancer, from the beginning, through the middle to the end, living it and learning about it, and in particular, her reading journey through, or to be more precise, her memory of the books that she has read over her lifetime that in some way served to help her through this treatment to survival. She tells of her truthful pain and decisions that a woman must make along the way during the process of the treatment (like the decision of whether or not to get cosmetic surgery or not).

It is a very heavily reference novel with at least 52 references to books or publications throughout the book that are in sometimes in such detail that they detract from her very well structured and heartfelt story. The references that she uses, whilst they are all very relevant to her journey and story, at times, seem to be fleshing it out a little too much and making this piece of writing a little bit self indulgent, showing off how well read she is. In many ways, this feels like an academic piece, an English literature book, one that I should be taking notes on (I did), which explores all of these books in relation to her circumstances.

Where it fails most, I think is that she has not given enough context of herself. I was left with a sense of hollowness of who she was, without a depth of her son and a real sense of her place, where she lived. I I didn't get a real feel for where she was other than in the west of Australia, which is a big state. Her son, once introduced, was lost, forgotten. I was left wondering about the impact that this had on him. I am aware that she wanted to write about the books, but the personal, emotional journey is important to the reader to.

Where Brenda did really well was to give a fantastic insight into the process of breast cancer treatment, the difficulty of it, and that through the distraction of books and readings she was able to survive and to look forward not back and be grateful, or as Robinson Crusoe said, "I am here, not there."

_____________________________________________________________________________

We read this for our book club, and the scoring in our book club was from 2/10 - 6/10. Most felt that the quotations were arduous, and a distraction to the story. A couple really enjoyed the references and the re-storytelling of them that Brenda did of them. Brenda highlighted how incredibly wellread she is and most of the book club had wished that she have given more of herself to the book rather than her book reviews.

Have you read it? What did you think of it?

Bewitched: Five Sentence Fiction

2011-11-05T15:54:00.000+11:00

I have decided to play along with Lillie McFerrin's Five Sentence Fiction. Head over to Lillie McFerrin Writes Blog to see who else is writing!

What it’s all about: Five Sentence Fiction is about packing a powerful punch in a tiny fist. Each week Lillie McFerrin posts a one word inspiration, then anyone wishing to participate will write a five sentence story based on the inspiration word. The word does not have to appear in your five sentences, just take your inspiration from that word.

This week’s inspiration word is: BEWITCHED

Here is my piece, I hope you like it:

Candice Rose was woken not by the usual way of her alarm, but by the fragrance that had wafted through into her bedroom, into her nose and placed itself just south east of her left sinus. It was a soft, sweet, musky smell that was calling to her, drawing her attention. It was the kind of smell that made Candice Rose's heart begin to beat faster, moving the blood at a much faster rate around her body, concentrating particularly around her neck, cheeks and lips. Candice slowly took another long breath in, soaking in the fragrance, confirming something she had almost forgotten. Then even with the raised heart beat and slightly shaky extremities, Candice Rose closed her eyes, lay back on her fluffy white pillow and smiled knowingly at who was about to walk in the door.

The Last of the Nomads by WJ Peasley reviewed

2011-11-04T15:28:00.002+11:00

A friend of mine lent me this truly remarkable book not long after we came back from travelling through the outback of Australia, on the dusty dirt roads, as she knew that I had been really struck by the different ways that people in our land are living: the conditions are so vastly different to what people in the city are living in, and over here in the East of Australia, we live in a "blissfully unaware" state of this. All of our encounters with the indigenous people who we met were incredibly enriching for each of us, and spending time in each of the communities that we went to was certainly one of the greatest highlights of our trip.

That being said, WJ Peasley's book, "The Last of the Nomads, which was published in 2009 by Fremantle Press, was a deeply moving journal of Dr Peasley's (an anthropologist doctor of aboriginal culture) journey into the Western Gibson Desert in 1976 to find Warri and Yatungka, who were believed to be the last of the Mandudjara tribe of the desert nomads. Peasley describes the journey in incredible detail: the waterholes, the sand dunes and trees and also Mudjon the elder who accompanied them, and the emotion they all go through on the journey. His descriptions are thorough, but not tedious to the reader.

During the time that he undertakes the trip, Western Australia is going through a terrible drought and Mudjon was terribly concerned about the well-being of Warri and Yatungka and approached Peasley to help him find them to bring them out to the Reserve that the rest of the their mob had moved to. Previously they had resisted due to years ago breaking traditional law by marrying each other. They, Warri and Yatungka, feared retribution. Mudjon wanted to go out to reassure them that they would be be safe from punishment and needed to be where water was so that they would survive.

Peasley documents so well the angst of breaking life as it has always been by brining the nomads into civilisation (Warri and Yatungka had never seen white man) when they have never seen it, taking the last of the nomads of the land so that none were left and the land was left to fend for itself. He seemed to feel the pain of where white man had interfered, but what we had started, he didn't feel could be left unfinished. Peasley touches on the fact that the Australian Aboriginals are unlike other indigenous peoples in that they have never developed an alcoholic beverage of their own, so therefore their culture was never geared up to the use of alcohol and the social effects and its abuses "...There were no rules laid down in Dreamtime to control its use. The Tribal elders had no guidelines to assist them, and have no precedents from their totemic ancestors, the lacked authority to formulate the necessary rules.." pp32. He postulates that this may be why in the reserve people drank to excess. The rules, the traditional rules are not there to live by.

It is a fascinating read and all through the book I felt privileged to have his insights into Mudjon's, Warri and Yatungka's lives. I would recommend this book for part of a greater understanding of the nomads of our land.

Tea Tree Inspired by Nature

2011-11-03T13:07:00.003+11:00

I was down at Inverloch (down by the sea) on the weekend with the family and while my boys were building yet another dam, I went exploring in the neighbouring group of tea trees. I was taken back to my childhood when we used to climb through the tiniest of holes and make cubby houses in the tea trees

Once inside, there was silence and peace. The longer I stood still, the more the birds came back as though I was not even there. I began to feel as though I belonged in there. All of the wind and rain, the busy noise of the dam building, the talking from my mum and husband had all completely disappeared. I could not hear a thing other than nature. I could actually feel my body calm down and relax. Peace.

On Wednesday, as luck would have it, in my writing group, Emilie ran an exercise for us to chose a single object from the natural world and describe it in as much detail as we could. Following is what I came up with, I hope you enjoy. Please note, poetry is not really my thing, I just wrote as I felt, as the emotion and words came, thinking of the tea tree.

Tea tree
Paperbark
Shedding skin
Pungent odour
Spider webs hiding
Tiny spiky leaves,
On frail sticky branches
Crackling in the breeze
Whooshing ghostly noises
Padded under foot
Silent hidden spaces
Nature's cubby houses
Broken branches
Weathered soft limbs
Silky Smooth white sticks
Dark green puddles,
Of pointy little sharp leaves
White petals floating
Hard little nuts,
Of little seeds gathered
Along those frail little sticks
Peel the bark skin back
To find different shades of brown,
Cream, beige and tan
Peel and peel again
Until it is tissue thin
Lean against the trunk
And feel the breeze move
This frail and fragile tree
Sway back and forth
Round and round it moves
Feel the movement of the tree
As you lean on it.

Thank you for reading

How was your morning?

2011-10-27T09:53:00.000+11:00

I dreamt of a towel brushing against the rusty old pot, an irritation. I was annoyed. I woke irritated again, but not knowingwhy. Thirsty, but unable to get towater. My head was hurting yet again. Itwas still dark, no energy to get up to deal with it. The Valium that I took last night didn’t seemto do the job that it was meant to do, to kill this mammoth migraine.

I lay for what seemed like an eternity, trying to will the painaway, or to will the relief to come to me. Neither happened, no aid would come my way. I peeled myself off the pillow gingerly andpushed 2 Panadiene Forte out of the packet, not the best choice, but theclosest, and threw them down my throat. At this rate, I would be stuck in the codeine rebound for evenlonger. Another 20 minutes and I couldvisual the pain so clearly that if I was a surgeon I would just get my knifeand cut it out. I knew that I needed toget the real medication, my Zomig and Voltarin, and my sniff stick, the VicksInhaler, but this meant walking out of the bedroom, and to the back room, everystep a vibration through the brain. Onevibration a little closer to relief, all of those extra vibrations adding up toheightened pain, to then hopefully lessened pain.

I moved as gently as I could with my cup to fill it up again,squinting as I walked out due to poor vision, no glasses on, and the glare ofthe sun beginning to lighten the sky with a pink tinge. Back in the safety of bed, I pulled out theprecious tablets and swallowed, then burrowed back under the doona with sniffstick providing relief in form of distraction to the senses.

The pain of the pillows, the pain of breathing, the irritation ofmyself. I knew that eventually this willgo, but I must wait it out. I just haveto think of a time past here, past this moment of intense pain, where I cannotbear my husband to brush me with his toes, or for him to pull the doona. I cannot bear the sound of the childrenrunning up the hall, which I knew they would do in about 10 minutes, then, I heardone of them stirring.

I consciously dropped my jaw to try to relax all of the musclesaround my head; let the balls of muscles slow down.

Why do they have to stomp so loudly?

Why is my pillow so uncomfortable?

Time.

Wait.

I wanted a coffee. I knewit will help. I know that some peoplesay not to, but I know that a coffee does help when it is this bad. I just needed someone to make it for me. I just wished I could put up a flag so thatthey knew when I needed it.

Bang, thump, the next one was up. I lay as still as church mouse hoping not to be noticed. He came in and climbed into bed on my husband’sside. The bed bounced and jiggled. I stayed still.

The first one up was now wearing my heels that I had left out theback, clip cloppeting around on the tiles and into our room. My husband growled at him. I murmured something, I am not sure what. I wanted coffee. I murmured, “Can you please make coffee?” He was gone.

“What did you say?” My husband.

“I’ve got a stinker.” I replied. There was an audible sigh. He haslived with these as long as he has known me. I guess they are tiring for him.

“What do you need?”

“I’ve taken everything. Iwas just asking John if he could put on the coffee.”

“Don’t worry, I’m getting up.” He threw off the doona, leaving myself and our youngest there. I nearly had the bed to myself. A silent bed. My youngest stroked my head under the doona. A lovely touch from a small soft hand; afeeling of relief, then he too was gone. I crashed.

Coffee appeared silently, then English muffin with “Try somethingdifferent”. The pain had changed. Moved from left to right, not as intense,bearable now. I could communicatenow. I could sit, talk, and even getdressed.

I sat in bed for a little longer listening to the stress that Ihad put on the family as they pinged off each other. My pain had become their stress. We are not islands when we are in families,we all belong to each other. Whateverhappens to one, affects another. Time toget dressed and help out until they all leave for school and work.

Make it Better...Write on Wednesday Exercise...Corner Store

2011-10-12T14:46:00.001+11:00

I am joining in with Write on Wednesdays and this week is all about editing and offering & accepting constructive criticism, which are both vital parts of the writing process. Pop over here if you want to join in.

The Write On Wednesday Rules: Get creative with the writing exercises - there isn't a right or wrong. Please do try to visit the other members of Write On Wednesdays and leave a comment of support and constructive criticism.

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 18 - Look through your previous WoW posts (or select a short writing piece that you would like to work on). Read through your piece carefully and let's attempt to make it better. Look for redundant words, cliches or overused phrases. Chop and change. This is not an exercise in word count, it's not about simply whittling it down. Make it a better piece of writing. Post your original and edited piece. THEN, throw it to the*wolves. Ask for advice from WoWers. With help you can make your writing shine. ** This article on criticism may help you get your brave on.

I have chosen Corner Store as a my piece to edit as I have only done one WoW post previously (and it was a one liner! Not much to edit!). Please provide constructive feedback. Thanks :)

Corner Store

I heard the bell jingle as he come in the door. My spine tingled. Not that creep. I didn't want him to see me. I needed to escape before he saw me here, but that damned bell would give me away. Where was Luigi? At least if Luigi was here, I might feel safe enough, but no-one else was in here. I just needed to try to work out how to get out of here without him noticing.

I refused to look around. I knew that it would be him, but I would not give in. I busied my hands as though it was really difficult to pick up a packet of chips. Not easy when there are only three packets there. Why the hell didn't they have more stock in this god-forsaken shop.

The floor creaked as he moved from the doorway. My heart beat was now resounding through the entire shop. I could no longer swallow as my heart had somehow crept up into my throat. Great. I was now going to die here. Right here, right now. This dirty creepy old shop. I refused to look around. My fingers were getting colder and my tongue had swollen to the size of a footy oval. I really was about to die. I tried to remember if I had actually signed that Will, or if it was still just filled out in pencil.

The floor creaked again. My heart did one enormous beat. Was it actually possible for a heart to do this? Beat fast in a throat, then do one enormous beat? Or was this what happen just before people had a sudden heart attack and died? No saliva left now. My feet couldn't move. Where the hell was Luigi? I took very shallow breaths so that my air did not move the space around me. I did not dare to touch anything for fear of making noise. I just stood there. Still. As a statue.

Another creak. This time it came from upstairs: Luigi. Thank goodness for that. He must have heard the bell jingle. Why did it take him so long? Am I in a time warp? My neck was starting to ache from holding my head up. I felt dizzy. I could feel the presence behind me, creeping around, creaking the old wooden floor boards. I could hear him picking up dusty produce off the shelves and throwing them in a basket. What was he up to? I daren't turn. If I didn't move, I wasn't here.

I could hear him getting closer. His movement was pushing the air into me like a semi-trailer barrelling down at 100km per hour. My heart seemed to be creeping into my mouth. What would it do then? Would it actually sit in my mouth? My whole heart, throbbing in my mouth, blood and all pumping out of it? What if I accidentally spat it out on the floor here in this quiet, gentle corner store. My heart for all to see. Bare my heart, on the floor. Beating it's pathetic little irregular beats, budump, burdump, dudump, du, du, dudump, burdump. Luigi would see. He would see. Anyone could see.

I reached out with my freezing cold hand to the chip shelf and missed. I accidentally hit one of the three bags of chips, BBQ, yuk. I felt sick now. I had to move. He was getting too close. Luigi's steps were getting heavier as he came down the narrow dark staircase. I lifted my first foot that was now made of concrete, and then the other, pulled my hat down over my eyes with my whitish-yellow finger, now made of icicles, and tried to creep down the window side of the aisle.

"Celina," Luigi called, as he came out of the bottom of the staircase. I felt him turn towards me. I reached for the door with the bell and as quickly as I could, fled into the sunshine.

Journaling...through good days and bad

2011-10-11T20:16:00.000+11:00

I have kept a journal, or a diary as I used to call it when I first started writing, since I was about 8 years old. I had one of those special little ones that came with a tiny key just for me and this was really important in a big rowdy house. I was the youngest of 4 kids and we usually had at least one ring-in staying with us as well from Mum & Dad's youth group, or someone who needed a little extra care. They sometimes stayed a night, sometimes 4 years, sometimes longer. There was not much space for privacy, so that little key was really important to me and I hid it in my jumper drawer, right at the back where no-one would ever think of looking for it.

When I first started writing, I wasn't really sure what to write, but I was very excited about having a little book of my own that I could write my own little thoughts each day. The days were already printed out on the pages, I just needed to fill in the detail of my day. The first year was not really very juicy; thoughts like, "Went to Jenny's after school. Had fun. Spaghetti for tea."

As the years passed by, and I fell in and out of love with boys, had fights with siblings, got annoyed with people in my house and my parents, I found that my diary was my friend. Then came the terrible day when my parents were out and my brother and sister found my diary and sat around reading it out loud with one of extended family who were living with us. The humiliation that I felt. The depth of my emotion that I had written even at the ripe old age of 11 was too much to bear to be read out loud by anyone else. It certainly wasn't for anyone else's eyes, it had only meant to be for venting my thoughts, without being judged, and here I was being hung by them. I am glad still to this day that I had not really put my whole heart into the words by then.

From then on the diary became hidden. It was not to be found ever again. I could not bear to go through that again. As far as I know, it didn't.

I continued to write, however, as I got older, I found that the diaries that had the preset pages with dates didn't work for me. I didn't always want to write every day and I didn't want to be confined to a set space for that day that I wrote. I moved to The Journal.

About the same time I guess I got a bit choosy about when I would write. I began to use my journal as my therapist. When things were not working properly in my life, I would nut it out in my journal, then it would clarify in my head and I would just get on with things again. The gaps began to show. Then I would only write about things once I sorted them out.

Last year I committed to write every day in my journal because we were travelling and every time I travel I have always kept a journal so that I don't forget the people, names, places, smells, and experience of the trip. I have been home for longer than I was away now, and while I was away, I wrote 4 books of journals, however, since being home, I am still on the same book. Go figure! Do I really nothing to say?

No, there is heaps to say, but, I just haven't bothered to write it down. Instead I have ruminated about it (a slight tick of being a woman) and tied myself in knots and pushed myself down into a deep dark tunnel. I have waited for each little hump to smooth itself out and then I write about it, or I write crazy angry words, there is nothing in between. Last year I think I really helped myself by continually writing my way through life, rather than stewing my way. I think that if I push myself to write, even if it is just a little, every day in my journal it will help me and also stop my more recent journal seeming a little swayed!

Do you journal everyday?

Off to camp for a birthday

2011-09-12T13:44:00.000+10:00

The list was ticked,

Item by item

Clothes were folded neatly

Toiletries and medicines laid out to bare

Black texta came out squeaking

With a name to write here and there

Everything placed gently,

One by one into the bag

A restless evening of anxiety

"What have I forgotten to put in?"

Early waking, excitement,

Noise, jumping around

Bag zipped, lunch packed, teeth brushed

Nothing to do.

While he is not watching

Birthday wishes are quietly slipped in

Words from all of us

We'll miss you this year

We love you, our oldest boy

We hope you have fun

One little butterscotch

Slipped into the envelope

This is just for you

To suck on and remember

The sweetness of our love

Happy Birthday Frank

The Revenge.. Coconut Jam Slice

2011-09-11T11:00:00.000+10:00

This is my response to the writing exercise, writing about an act of crime, revenge or deceit. I found it really hard to think of one to start, and then suddenly, it just all came out. So, here it is!

“Ya Mum has a big fat bum”

James held his eyes firm to the book. If he didn’t move his eyes, he couldn’t hear them. He really hated these dickheads. They were at it again.

He knew the drill. ‘Don’tretaliate, ignore, turn the other cheek, la, la, la,’ but really, this justsucked.

It was time to do something about it. It had been going on for years now. That bloody cackling laughter of that shithead Steve. Poncy Steve. Steve the Jock. Surfy Steve. Steve, always good at everything, Steve.

James lived next door to Steve and was exactly 2 hours and 3 minutesyounger than Steve, but it you looked at the two of them, you wouldn’t knowit. James was a whole head and shouldershorter than him. His legs and arms werelike toothpicks.

Steve’s favourite games over the last 12 years of his life had been tohave fun having a laugh at James and seeing if he could make him cry. It didn’t help that their mums were the bestof friends.

‘Steve, here’s something my mum made.’

James pushed the coconut jam slice over. It was kind of squashed up in the cling wrap.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Steve sneered. His mates, the Klingons, laughed.

‘Nothin’, she just wanted to you ‘ave it.’ James replied.

James waited to see if he would open it and eat it or pass it over to hisright hand man, Pete. Pete the loyal,always there, silent and strong, ready to carry out Steve’s orders at anytime.

‘Please eat the slice’, James prayed.

Steve looked at James steely and undid the cling wrap, then stuffed thewhole thing in his gob.

James’ heart was pounding and he thought he was going to pisshimself. His heart was beating in histhroat now. He thought he might stopbreathing. There was no room for breathto get through.

‘What the hell do ya want, loser?’ then Steve suddenly grabbed his throatand his stomach all at once and collapsed onto the ground. He was mouthing something, but no words werecoming out. Pete and the other loonieswere crowding in around The Big Guy.

James slipped away with his skinny legs shaking to find another hideyhole in the playground and waited for the siren.

Writing Exercise..Time for Revenge

2011-09-10T11:00:00.000+10:00

This is a fun exercise that we did in our writing group on Wednesday and is especially good if you are not normally writing in the crime genre, as it pushes the boundaries.

Think about a character (it could be you) and write about an act of crime, revenge or deceit.

Explore and have fun with it.

If you can't think of anything to start with, write down a list of possibilities, and brainstorm the idea. It is not about solving or resolving everything.

It is an exercise in imagination or possibilities.

Leave a comment with a link to your blog or website if you would like others to read your story and so I can have a trawl through!

Happy imagining!

Meg

Look what I got this morning!

2011-09-09T10:38:00.001+10:00

My Coffee!, originally uploaded by megs threads.

Matt is getting good on the coffee! The love is flowing...

Whatever You Love by Louise Doughty Book Review

2011-09-07T20:06:00.004+10:00

A gripping and devasting story of tragic grief & pain. This book had me crying openly on the train. The rawness that Louise was able to capture of Laura's painful journey through the years, climaxing at the moment of her daughter's accident was deep and heartfelt. The pain of the the bitter icy cold that Eastley, where it was set, seemed to offer, with the winds that were sharp and cold was a good reflection of what Laura was going through with the sudden and tragic loss of her daughter, Betty.

It was an interesting effect jumping 'before' and 'after' throughout the story, allowing me, the reader, to slowly get a clearer insight into the whole picture through all of the windows of Laura's life and the relationships around her. Louise leads the reader into the circumstances around the accident slowly, allowing the reader to fully understand the depth of pain that a mother feels at the loss of a child.

Whilst we are seeing it all through Laura's eyes, we gain more & more understanding of the situation and circumstances leading up to it and how each of the characters interrelate with each other and her and the tragic moment.

Louise gives each of the characters great depth. She explores Laura's ex-husband David and the pain and love that was still there, and his new partner Chloe, and all of her issues that came with her and the relationship of being the new partner as well as their young boy, Harry and her over-controlling mother. Louise explores what the effect of the tragic circumstances on top of separation has on the younger child, Rees, who comes across as a little neglected, watching his mother going through an incredibly difficult time and needing just a normal life. Whilst Laura's relationship with the father, Mr A, of the driver of car who killed her daughter seems inappropriate, it does explore the issue of what really is appropriate in grief? When pushed to the extremity of pain and loss, what does one do, and how does one go on?.

Louise Doughty gives a measured approach to her story by letting out little by little, and recalling detail, which in some circumstances may seem tedious, in this, proved to work wonderfully. The ending was perhaps a little neat..

A tragic story told in an empathetic way.

Unfortunately I read this just two weeks before an incredibly similar tragic accident in my community (just around the corner) which immediately put me in the Laura's head, probably giving me a greater understanding of what the mother may have been going through (thank you Louise), however, it did send me into the depths of grief and made me cling to my kids with love and tenderness. A book of pain and grief.

Write on Wednesday...Blank Piece of Paper

2011-09-07T12:49:00.000+10:00

A blank piece of paper is merely thoughts in waiting

I am playing along with Write on Wednesday, and this week, the exercise is "A Great One Liner"

Pop over to Ink Paper Pen for links to other Great One Liners

Gearing up for School Camp as an Allergy Sufferer

2011-09-05T13:59:00.001+10:00

All of the dressings and bandages hanging up to dry

My big guy is a great kid and on the whole, he doesn't complain too much (other than jobs, homework, the usual nearly 12 year old kinda stuff). He and I both know that there are a lot of other kids out there who have a whole bunch of things that are actually really hard to deal with. We know that because we have had to spent a lot of our years popping into have his regular checkups, fine tunings if you like, over the last 10 years at the Royal Children's Hospital. He sufferers from asthma, eczema (it has taken me 10 years to learn how to spell that word) and rhinitis, and his youngest brother suffers, to a milder degree, the same as well as food anaphylaxis.

For my 3 guys, though, life goes on, they still have to muck in, run around, eat stuff, fight, get into trouble and just generally behave like normal kids, and we are just a normal family probably, except for odd the ventolin inhalers and epipens hanging around and multiple tubes of cream, oil and ointment in the bathroom.

Anyway, I do tend to get a little fatigued with it all occasionally (I wonder if there is such a condition as an "Allergy-Mum-Fatigue"...if so, I may have caught it). So when it came to bedtime last night, and he told me 'His Worries' (which seems to be a nightly routine at the moment, after bedtime....), which were about going to camp next week with his skin being out of control, I had a sudden onset of Chronic-Allergy-Mum-Fatigue and was waning between exhaustion and screaming at the same time. After recovering, I then proceeded to oint (is there such a word), cream and dress his itchy patches and explained that I-was-in-charge-from-here-until-camp-so-listen-to-me-or ... but I couldn't think of what to say after or as I had calmed down by then and realised that by now I had already missed so much of "The September Issue" that it didn't matter anyway.

So from here until camp next week, it is my rules (which means I will be spending 3 times a day treating his skin so that he will have gorgeous skin that women would kill for...maybe I should do mine as well...) and then he will be able to play in the sea to his hearts content on camp, and I will mop up the mess after camp again and before the holiday camp that he is signed up for. *sigh*

The things no-one told me before I became a mother. Luckily I adore my boys!

My Shadow, my unwelcome friend.

2011-09-02T12:08:00.001+10:00

Half of my head is a shadow. I sit still, trying to feel a part of the conversation. Laughter does not come, words do not flow. A smile, a half arsed, fake, hard work smile is all I can manage.

I know that I would be best placed being elsewhere, anywhere, it wouldn't matter where, but there is nowhere to go. I am it. I am mum and I am on duty. I need to listen. This is the third day now of my head in this state and this is all I know.

I have lived like this for years. I don't even know when exactly it began; when asked, I say, "12", to pull a number out of the hat.

I massage the lump of muscle at my jaw.

I do know that by 16, my father was terribly concerned about the amount of pain killers I was taking, so I know that it had built up before then.

My 10 year old talks loudly, my 8 year old drops something. I snap, "MY HEAD!"

They know. Sweet boys. They have lived with it since birth. I don't retreat too often as I would not have a life. I just let the pain come with me, my shadow, my unwelcome friend. The one I didn't ask to come along.

"Mum, don't you have book club tonight?" my 11 year old asks. My sadness that I can't shake my pain away, again. This will be the third one I have missed this year.

Hunger is Painful

2011-08-22T14:29:00.001+10:00

The boys doing some hard yakka during the day

Our family decided to do the 40 hour famine together as an all-in-together kinda thing, with everyone giving up something (or a few things) to really make sure that we really understood what it was like to go without. That was what we had signed up for, but once we had started, on the Saturday morning the boys (aged 8, 10 & 11) were really pumped to go without food for as long as they could, even though the 8 year old had said he would go without furniture, gameboys, electronics and just eat basic food (rice & lentils) to understand the refugee camp life. I thought that was probably more than enough for a little tacker. The other two had pledged to go without for 8 hours and then eat the basic food as well. The 10 year old said he would go without electronics, reading and furniture (all tough stuff for a 10 year old boy) and the 11 year old (the great reader) said he would give up reading, furniture, and 8 hours of food. So, I was a little surprised when they said they were going to go for as long as they could without food. My husband wasn't sure that he could even survive without breaky. I convinced him to give it a go and slipped him a barley sugar. He is one of those stick figures with that incredibly high metabolism who have always eaten every two hours or he starts getting a little vague and tired, and never in his life put on any (and I mean any) weight, no matter what or how much he has eaten.

The guys plunged headlong into a backyard blitz project that not only took their minds off their hunger and food, but the time and the fact that they couldn't sit down or play on any electronic things or read. By the mid afternoon, the day began to loom, and the energy levels dropped. The eight year old was getting quite restless and annoyed, and no amount of barley sugars was going to hit the spot with him I suggested a little bowl of rice for him and it was the answer. He felt much calmer. The boys by now had given up of the hard yards of the digging and were doing some drawing, but were getting annoyed with this as well, so I found a game that we hadn't played for ages and took this out. It all became about distraction.

My husband kept digging. Once the game was over I took at look at the yard and found him slumped and pale sitting in the dirt leaning on the fence. Time for a little bowl of rice. His metabolism wasn't really made for no food and hard yakka. He had gone for 17 hours, and the rice really lifted him. Rice really is a super food.

The 10 & 11 year old persisted and by the 23.5 hour mark, the pain of it was really showing. The 11 year old had done so much hard work and he had now run out of everything. I wanted him to eat a little bit of rice and lentils but he was crying in anger. The 10 year old was refusing point blank, but we knew that by now he really needed a little something. We talked about how the 40 hour famine is about the sponsorship and learning from the experience, but not competition. I peeled a mandarin, put the rice and lentils in front of them, and we made some toast for them. Eventually they ate a little and stopped crying and calmed down. It gave us a chance to talk about what Hunger really feels like, because now they know. They talked about how Lily in East Timor (who was in the World Vision video) must feel only eating one meal a day, and how maybe she might cry with hunger sometimes.

They also talked about how they could probably eat less all the time. I think that we all can.

Me, I found it tough too personally. It was tough going without furniture, finding somewhere to sit on the ground, and the hard old camping mattress. Cooking food and not being able to eat it was tough, but the toughest thing for me as a mother was having to manage a hungry family and wanting to just feed them. Of course, in the end I did, as I made the decision that they were too young. If I was, say in East Timor, I may not have been able to make that decision. A mother there doesn't have the opportunities that I have here, the barley sugars to keep them going, knowing that it will end on Sunday at lunch time, knowing that there is always an opt out if they fall apart. We are a land of opportunity, even us, who have so little, still have so much.

It was a great experience for all of us, especially doing it as a family. In the middle of it, the boys were crying that they would never do it again. At the end, they were planning what they were going to give up next year.

All up this year so far our family together has raised $895 to help end Global Hunger. If you want to do your bit to help end Global Hunger, the links to each of our profiles are:

Frank
John
Peter
Matt
Meg

40 Hour Famine family experience

2011-08-02T12:49:00.003+10:00

It all began with my 11 year old trawling around on the Internet a couple of weeks ago. He stumbled onto the 40 hour famine website and immediately said "I want to do that!" I said, "Sure," (I was in the middle of something) "I'll have a look at it later, but I don't reckon that you will be able to fast for the 40 hours at your age, but there might be other things you can do."
He has a great memory (much better than mine) and has stuck at it from then until, well, the other day when I finally got around to doing it. In the meantime, he has drummed up support from his 2 brothers who have been concocting ideas of what they may give up, and they have been talking to their teachers. Our youngest (8 year old) even had a practise day at school of not using any furniture at school for the day. Needless to say the teacher was impressed that he has the will power to do it.
So this August, our family are going to do the 40 hour famine together for the first time! We have sat down to work out what we are giving up:

Frank (11yrs old) is giving up:
reading
8 hours of food
use of furniture

John (10yrs old) is giving up:
reading
electronics
8 hours of food
use of furniture

Peter (8yrs old) is giving up:
furniture
electronics
gameboys

Matt is giving up:
Furniture
phones & internet
8 hours of food

I will give up:
Food
furniture
phone & internet

We made a decision that the food that was going to be eaten by the members of the family that needed to eat would be basic, the essentials only, like what people who are in refugee camps may get, so it will be rice, oats and lentils.

If you would like to donate to World Vision 40 hour famine to help fight Global Hunger and support us, the URL's are:

Frank
John
Peter
Matt
Meg

If you would like to join us in the fight, go to World Vision, 40 hour famine site and join up! It's not too late.

Mid-life Crisis

2011-07-21T10:51:00.000+10:00

I am going through changes...not like when a girl grow boobs, but changes like working out how to schedule myself with a great sea of time that needs to be filled and huge amounts of "things" to fill it. Wondrous things that I have always wanted to do, finally being able to do them and batting people off whilst they try to fill them up.

Finally a mind free to be able to use and time available to do what I want to do! My mum asked if I was going through a mid-life crisis...I thought that I was too young (I still feel like that 20 something year old in a slightly older body), so the answer to that would be a great big fat NO! I have just decided after all these years to finally give myself the time that I want and need to do want I really feel passionate about. Writing. This takes time. And discipline. Lots of it.

At the moment, I feel like my cat that I used to have (called Woosey - she really wasn't one, she was always picking fights and coming home scratched up) turning round and round and round, trying to get comfortable, sorting myself out, clearing my head and my space, sorting my brain and thoughts, my scattered threads out, drawing them together, learning how, and where I can work. Retraining myself and putting some rules up for myself, throwing some goals out there... Trying not to sit in the pantry eating or lie in bed resting!

When I'm not berating myself to go back to work, I've got study to do, family to feed, and a small part time job still...life goes on to hopefully stop me going completely bonkers and just wearing 6 jumpers to keep warm and looking like a crazed woman as the kids walk in the door after school.

Egg Free Recipe: Sultana, Cheese 'n Oat Bars

2011-07-19T14:44:00.000+10:00

When we found out that my youngest son was allergic to a whole bunch of foods including eggs at the grand old age of 7 months I had to find recipes that would work for us. Eggs, I found, turned out to be quite difficult to replace in baking, so I have hunted high and low and made up recipes along the way. Here is one of them.

Sultana, Cheese ‘n Oat Bars

This is one of my mum’s recipes that she often made with the kids when they went down to her place for a play. They would come back with plastic containers full of it to feast on. Savoury, yet sweet.

Ingredients:

1 ½ cups plain flour

½ teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon salt

1 ½ cups rolled oats

1 cup brown sugar

185 g butter

3 tablespoons apricot jam (you can use any jam and homemade jam is really yummy)

125g grated tasty cheese

1 cup sultanas

Method:

Preheat oven to Sift the flour, baking powder, sugar and salt.

Rub in the butter until it resembles breadcrumbs.

Add the oats.

Press half of the mixture into the base of an 18cm x 28cm slice tray.

Spread the jam over the mixture in the tray.

Sprinkle the cheese over the jam.

Sprinkle the sultanas over the jam.

Spread the remaining crumble mixture over the filling, pressing down so that the oats will not flake off and become dry.

Bake in a moderate over 35-40 minutes or until golden brown.

Cool and slice.

Preparation time: 20 minutes

Cooking time: 40 minutes

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins - book review

2011-07-18T13:02:00.000+10:00

I initially began to read this as I had bought it for Frank for class (grade 6) and the girl in Readings bookshop suggested that due to the themes inside, I may wish to read it as well so that we could discuss it.

The story is of the Nation Panem in the future where an annual TV reality show is about to take place. Twelve girls and twelve boys are selected each of the Districts (a pair from each) and they must fight each other to death until there is a winner.

The "game" or The Games" as is it is known take place in Capital where there is wealth and glamour and people appear to be ageless.

The Districts provide the Capital with everything that is needed and they are all comparatively poor.

The story focuses on District 12 (each District is known only by number), one of the poorest of the Districts and Katniss, who is a very good (illegal) hunter in the adjoining (out-of-bounds) woods with her friend Gale. Most people of the District work in the Seam (coal).

Katniss' sister and Peeta (the Baker's son) are selected for the game and Katniss volunteers to go instead of her sister as she had always protected her mother and sister since her father had died. Peeta and Katniss have to learn whether or not to trust each other as the controllers, or the Gamemakers, manipulate them during the game, and they learn a lot about themselves, the others in the games and each other and the extent that humans will go to in order to save themselves.

This is a story of struggle for identity and survival. It is at times horrific and frightening and truly dark. This is not much sense of hope in this story for the reader. Appropriate for the 11 year old age bracket that is on the back of the book? I am not really sure about that. I think that this book is a little dark for this age bracket. I think that that this age group needs more hope to hold on to.

Boys and Guns

2011-07-16T19:19:00.000+10:00

I have 3 boys and I don't like violence.

I have always kept guns away from my boys, yet they have managed throughout their short lives to find guns and "killing games" in their fingers and with their imagination and with sticks. I have tried to distract them with, when they were younger, playdough and craft, sandpits and active play, yet, there was always a way for the fighting and killing to make a way back in. This was particularly evident when playing with other boys.

Still, at the ages of 12, 11 & 8, they still had no guns (if we didn't count the one that came with the Elastic Making Kit for shooting rubber bands that has been used many times for other purposes).

Today after much begging a pleading, my husband was coerced into taking them to Kmart to spend their saved up pocket money on Lego. Much counting up had been done prior to going, and much waiting, and cleaning of the house had to be done first.

Needless to say I was incredibly surprised to find 3 boys walk in the door with an armoury of guns. One shot gun, two pistols and a rifle. Nerf guns. Ri-ight....

Now, I know that they are "toys", but, I am wondering (only 3 hours later) as I watch the boys constantly loading and reloading them with such intensity, how good these toys are. It does scare me to see boys behaving this way. I cannot imagine a girl getting a toy like this and finding such enjoyment. Being a mother of boys is a constant eye opener for me. They really think completely differently to me. I look at it and think of the child soldiers in Africa, yet they are just (I hope) having fun. Maybe as a mother, I am thinking too much about this. Baah....Let's hope they break soon.

On My Bedside Table

2011-07-16T15:35:00.000+10:00

This is what is currently on my bedside table:

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

Sophie's World by Jostein Gaarder

Keep Him My Country by Mary Durack

Women of the Outback by Sue Williams

Sons in the Saddle by Mary Duraack

The Last of the Nomads by WJ Peasley

Why Weren't We Told by Henry Reynolds

Guantanamo my Journey by David Hicks

My 3 finished journals from my trip around Australia

Shadow by Michael Morpurgo

My book review notebook

My visual journal

NIV Study Bible

My current Journal
2 Pens
Glass of Water

2 Foil Sculptures (one made by my son John & other by my son Peter)

Jar of Vicks

Pair of Scissors

My Pindan rock

1 Peg

Vick inhaler stick

Little notebook

Card from son Peter to Get Well

Seven Studies on the Holy Spirit Pentecost 2011

Yep, a little overloaded, and no, I am not reading all at once, they are all on my "to be read" list. The Hunger Games I have just finished (will do a review) and is waiting for me to finish the review, and next up is The Last of the Nomads.

What is on your bedside table?

Return to Writing and Reflecting

2011-07-12T21:24:00.001+10:00

A few words...I'm back. I not only survived travelling (read about it over here) with my husband and 3 boys in the close confines of a car and tent for 9 months, but grew as a person out of it. My silence has been part of this growth. Part of inner reflection, trying to understand what it all means and what to do with these changes.

I read only one book last year (other than the Hema Map of Australia) and that was Barack Obama's book, Dreams from My Father (great by the way, a real insight into the leader of the biggest first world country) due to so many other things to do and lack of lighting at night.

I am making up for it this year and in my tiny spare moments, reading until my eyes shut themselves.

My plan for this blog is a little revamp, more opinions, thoughts here and there in addition to updates on the books I have been reading, the occasional bit of prose...

Feedback as you wish.

new adventure

2010-03-23T15:34:00.000+11:00

As I write this, I am sitting in a 14 year old rusty dingo bright blue camper trailer in Adelaide. 17 days ago we drove out of Melbourne after packing up the house and renting it out. We made the big decision to "do the Big Trip"! We are travelling for about 9 months. Myself and my 4 boys (partner included). That's a lot of testosterone in close quarters, I can tell you now already!

Anyway, I could go on for a long, long, long, long way, however, I am writing to say that this is really why I haven't had time to do a post. I was flat out packing up the house for 6 months with the last 2 months being insane. Now that I have more time, I am not really around my sewing things (funnily enough!), and power is quite limited, and I am enjoying more of the simple things.

I may well do a blog about the trip...my mind has been turning it over , I just needed to slow down a little first...watch this space, you will know if I do. Anyway, I'll be back...2011.

Cheers for now and thanks for the support to here, Meg

A Fraction of the Whole by Steve Tolz Book Review

2009-11-18T11:56:00.003+11:00

This weighty tome is a cracker of a debut novel and I hope Steve hasn't run himself out of energy and ideas so that he can go on to write more. I don't know how long it took him to write this, but it certainly took me a while to read this (mind you, I was only reading it in snippets at the tired end of every day - probably not the best way for this book to be read), however, there is a good 711 pages of writing and he has done a fine job on every page.

An enthralling tale that twists through the father and son relationship to give the reader and Jasper, the son, an understanding of the strange life his father, Martin Dean, and his uncle, Terry Dean have lived. In some ways, and probably because I took so long to read it, the detail was so incredibly intensive and enthralling, that I forgot some of the things from the start. Maybe I should read it when I am not quite as busy and am able to read great slabs at once.

The story itself seems quite unbelievable, but Steve's language and tone sets it in a way that puts it back into the possibility. Leaves the reader questioning. Jasper tries so hard to not be his father (as so many of us do) but the realisation as he gets older that he is part of him and that this is OK is a significant moment into adulthood. A milestone that Steve alludes to that is so often only realised too late.

Martin spends his whole life running, hiding trying to show his genius, but the world is only interested in his bad boy brother Terry and this drives him into himself more. I was left feeling sad for him, yet at the same time, wondering why he didn't just make a break elsewhere as an unknown being. A frustrating character.

It appeared that his intentions were very pure, naive even for Jasper; however his emotional maturity was stunted at the point of the letterbox incident - the pivotal point in his life where things began to go wrong for him.

The threads of the saga were well held together, even when I was unsure as to whether there was anymore to say, Steve Tolz found more words to say. It was a story of deceit, love, betrayal. A story of two brothers. A story of the father and son relationship. A story of living on the edge, behind the hedge, in a maze, in a craze. A story about lessons to learn and not learn.

9/10

Stuffed

2009-11-18T11:21:00.001+11:00

Stuffed up head, stuffed up chest, hard to think, hard to laugh. Over it. Bored with myself. Listening to the laughter in the nearby schoolyard wishing I had the lightness and joy that they did. One packet or two more of antibiotics, more sleep...I know it will come back, I just want it now.

One Beautiful Thing

2009-11-12T13:38:00.000+11:00

I woke before the world today to the sound of the earth stretching out. The sun was creeping around the horizon with a faint flow in the sky. The earth was beginning to warm in this glow. There was a quiet, a gentle hum. Only I could hear this.

Then a magpie began his morning song. My body lay so gently rested. Not asleep. Awake, eyes open, rested, listening to the earth waking, warming the magpie song.

Other birds began to join in as the warm glow from the sun strengthened into pinkish hues then through to orange. I lay still. Completely at peace. No-one calling for me, my services not required. At rest. The birds moved to a morning feeding and singing frenzy whilst I lay entranced by their song.

As the sun turned from orange to yellow and the sky to blue, the birds settled into their daily song, and my eyelids rested once more to that peaceful place - shut.

Breath by Tim Winton - Book Review

2009-11-12T13:10:00.003+11:00

This is such a beautifully written story that took Bruce, (Pikelet) through the toughest years of life - adolescence. Desperately looking for role models, he finds a mate in Loonie, who is also trying to work himself out and together they find Sando, an older man, who sees their potential, and tries to live through their youth.

Sando uses their youth for his own dreams and pushes them to the extreme so that they are always wanting for more. The surfing becomes an addiction where it can only become more extreme for them to get the buzz that they are after. The rest of life becomes too ordinary for them. Tim Winton deals with the pains of this age so well, as well as the pain of failures of the older folk, Sando and his partner Eve.

There is this constant questioning, tension going on through Pikelet's mind, trying to be "out there", something different, but when everything fell apart with Sando and Loonie, he looked around town and he was unsure. "Was I serious? Could I do something gnarly, or was I just ordinary?" (pg 76). Pikelet begins to feel as though he just doesn't fit in the ordinary either, and that he really needs the "extraordinary" when ..."There was such and intoxicating power to be had from doing things that no-one else dared try" (pg 115) and "Everything around me seemed just so pointless and puny. The locals in the street looked cowed and weak and ordinary" (pg 116).

Tim's descriptions of ordinariness and extremes and the intoxications of it were brilliant and would be great as a study item for kids, boys in particular, 16 yrs plus, as long as it was a guided study. There are certainly some fairly heavy themes in here. Heavy sexual, erotic themes and addiction themes that need to be dealt with in a "Read and Discuss" situation with the adolescence age group.

I did find the ending a little abrupt after such a brilliant in-depth study of the adolescent years, and felt that it didn't link well enough. That said, the book has stuck with me very strongly. It is a great book, brilliant even especially for the possibilities it holds for helping adolescents understand themselves a little more. Tim, I think is a brilliant writer, and each book seems to only get better. 9/10

Book Review: All that Happened at Number 26 by Denise Scott

2009-11-12T12:34:00.003+11:00

A great light hearted read by Denise Scott that really could have been about what is happening in my house (except without Denise's great humour). A really well written and very funny book. The book is basically a memoir of her and her family's life whilst they lived at Number 26 and all of the goings on there. The ups and the downs, and the ins and the outs of life whilst they grew up. The crazy times of being with incredibly creative parents, but incredibly poor. Parents putting up with each other and kids having to put up with parents.

Denise is incredible to be able to look at her own life and poke a stick at it and a have a good laugh, even at the crap. It is endearing to to see the depth of the relationships that they have in their family, even through the humour.

Well put together. I wish that I was as funny as Denise and was able to poke a stick at myself as well as she does. Well done Denise. 8/10

weekend beginnings

2009-11-07T08:46:00.000+11:00

The birds are singing in cheerful abandon as the sun warms the earth. The washing lies on the floor of the laundry in piles of colours ready to be fed into the hungry machine. Distractions of thirsty plants in pots catch my eye, drawing me away from the clamouring noise of the Bionicle play inside. Laughter turns to tears turns to anger turns to play in moments that one can only just blink an eye. Air as fresh as cut grass makes me gasp for more till my lungs are stretched out to the max. I reach my face to the morning sunshine and pause...aah...let the weekend begin.

Review of My Guantanamo Diary by Mahvish Rukhsana Khan

2009-11-05T14:46:00.005+11:00

Wow! What an exhausting story that is a must read by all so that we never, never forget what want and power can do to people, in particular to innocent people.

This is the story that puts the human face to the people at Guantanamo Bay and gives us a chance to understand them. As a reader, you are taken through anger, frustration, joy and tears. It is beautifully written, and is a book that will never leave you. Such an important story to be told. We need to learn to listen to both sides so that we can be more understanding, and Mahvish Khan enables us to do that.

I found many parts of this book to be very hard to digest. Uncomfortable, and so they should be. It is not an easy read, it is not an easy topic. The atrocity of the "war against terror" were are are still so damaging because of the lack of trial of the Afgani's and Arabs and also because of the bounty system.

It was a frighteningly eye opening book, and I thank Mahvish for bringing the stories of these hurt people to the world. Thank goodness for a change of power to the USA so that Guantanamo will be closed down and hopefully all remaining inmates will receive a fair trial.

Incredibly well written. I did finish wanting to know more, however, understanding that probably even she doesn't know more.

Depressing, thought provoking.

10/10

Review of The Time We Have Taken by Steven Carroll

2009-11-05T14:12:00.004+11:00

A gentle rolling tale of suburban lives and their interactions and the importance of their past relationships. Steven captured the tiny parts of suburban life so terribly well. Rita pack s to leave her house, the reality of leaving a house after many years is so complex and Steven managed to dissect this and look at the different types of people, " ...the types that just get up and go..." and the type that need to "...say goodbye properly."

The novel got off to what seemed like a very excited and interesting beginning and from there lost momentum slowing to the pace of a horse and cart.

The information was interesting however, the tension lines in the writing waned a little. Madeline's character seemed a little weak and Peter Van Rijn could have had much more depth to his character.

There were some great lines in there and I did like the style of this writing, very common voice, , as thought he was writing straight from their heads. Being a Melbourne writer and being set in Melbourne perhaps also made it more common for me.

I did find myself guessing the whole time as to where "Progress" was. I found the title of the novel arduous, and kept forgetting it. Too long and hard to remember.
All up 7/10

Review of The Slap by Christos Tsiolkos

2009-11-05T13:39:00.003+11:00

Christos has done a brilliant job of picking out people from backyards, in a "normal" situation and just turned the dial up a little. He has allowed us to peer into the windows of all of the people involved afterward to understand the aftershock that can only come from these things. He has highlighted how these situations do happen, can happen, in your suburbia, our suburbia. All of us, all of our suburbs have ugly characters. Situations that are cranked up a little can turn ugly, and people can turn ugly.

I really loved the commonness of his language. It was one that I found I was able to to relate to. It was fascinating to read how something like slapping anothers child can have a ripple effect on others lives, and the minuta of it all.

I found that I really enjoyed the approach of looking through the windows of each of the characters tortured souls to gain more of an understanding of them. He had great depth of character studies, except perhaps Brendan, who I was always a little unsure as to exactly his relationships with Connie and then late in the book, there was a hint of a tension between him and Aisha, leading to more confusion on my part.

Richie was a fantastic character, the angst of the teen. Well developed. Rosie was a character who Christos developed so well that I wanted to shake her into reality, to tell her to grow up.

Great read 9/10

Corner Store

2009-11-05T12:47:00.004+11:00

I heard the bell jingle as he come in the door. My spine tingled. I refused to look around. I knew that it would be him, but I would not give in. I made my hands busy as though it was really difficult to pick up a packet of chips. Not easy when there are only three packets there. Why the hell didn't they have more stock in this god-forsaken shop. The floor creaked as he moved from the doorway. My heart beat was now resounding throughout the entire shop. I could no longer swallow as my heart had somehow crept up into my throat. Great. I was now going to die here. Right here. Right now. This dirty creepy old shop. I still refused to look around. My fingers were getting colder and my tongue had swollen to the size of a footy oval. I really was about to die. I tried to remember if I had actually signed that Will, or if it was still just filled out in pencil. The floor creaked again. My heart did one enormous beat. Is it possible for a heart to do this? Beat fast in a throat, then do one enormous beat? Or was this what did happen just before people had their sudden heart attack and died? No saliva left. My feet couldn't move. Where the hell was Luigi? I took very shallow breaths so that my air did not make any effect on the space. I decided not to touch anything any more. I just stood there. Still. As a statue. Another creak. This time it came from upstairs. Luigi. Thank goodness for that. He must have heard the bell jingle. Why did it take him so long? Am I in a time warp? My neck was starting to ache from holding my head up. I felt dizzy. I could feel the presence behind me, creeping around, creaking the old wooden floor boards. I could hear him picking up dusty produce off the shelves and throwing them in a basket. What was he up to? I daren't turn. If I didn't move, I wasn't here. I could hear him getting closer. My heart seemed to be creeping into my mouth. What would it do then? Would it actually sit in my mouth? My whole heart, throbbing in my mouth, blood and all pumping out of it? What if I accidentally spat it out on the floor here in this quiet, gentle corner store. My heart for all to see. Bare my heart, on the floor. Beating it's pathetic little irregular beats, budump, burdump, dudump, du, du, dudump, burdump. Luigi would see. He would see. Anyone could see.
I reached out with my freezing cold hand to the chip shelf and missed. I accidentally hit one of the three bags of chips, BBQ, yuk. I felt sick now. I had to move. He was getting too close. Luigi's steps were getting heavier as he came down the narrow dark staircase. I lifted my first foot that was now made of concrete, and then the other, pulled my hat down over my eyes with my whitish-yellow finger that resembled icicles, and tried to creep down the window side of the aisle.
"Celina," Luigi called, as he came out of the bottom of the staircase. I felt Him turn towards me. I reached for the door with the bell and as quickly as I could, fled into the sunshine.

Review of Addition by Toni Jordan

2009-11-05T12:36:00.004+11:00

What a great, enthralling debut novel. I was caught right from the start. It is all about the numbers. By the end of the novel, I was unsure as to whether I had an obsessive compulsive disorder myself and began to question everything that I did, the order that I did it in, the patterns that I needed in my life, the people. I was engrossed.

I would even go as far as saying that it was a brilliant novel by a Melbourne author. I thoroughly enjoyed being drawn into this world of the obsessive compulsive. Toni managed to put the personality into a condition and dealt with how treatment affects the person within.

Addition is all about the counting, and counting is what soothes Grace when she feels things are beginning to get a little out of control. It is her mechanism of controlling her world. It is also the one thing that others think needs to be stopped.

The hero, Grace's white knight, does at times seem a little implausible, however, this doesn't really take away from Toni's great insight into the personality of person locked behind such a socially debilitating condition.

A great and interesting insight into the minds of others and ourselves. Looking forward to see what else Toni has to offer. 9/10

Ageing

2009-10-28T12:13:00.003+11:00

I really don't want to be dull and boring. I always liked the look of that wife on that BBC show with the crazy hair and bright clothes, bright lippy while her hubby (the dentist) was always in navy. Dull. So when I actually saw a grey hair peeping out, the realisation that I was no longer a 25 year old hit me, I grabbed a bottle of chestnut, just like I did when I was 25, because the slabs of colour just didn't cut it anymore. Then I threw on the bright dark red lippy - everyday.

Then I looked in the mirror.

Now I really did look like a middle-aged woman. What I could do in my 20's suddenly looks crap in my ... ahem... later years. Like mutton dressed up as lamb, literally. Now, how to be a not so dowdy ... more mature person with a younger attitude with looking like a dick. Suddenly all I could see around me was all my friends looking old. I whistled too much in my life time, so too many lip wrinkles, and smiled too much, so eye wrinkles, and the bit under my chin - everyone had that problem - it was dropping. Bags under our eyes. We were no longer as fresh as daisies.

Would I have it any other way? Not smile? No. Not whistle? No thank you, many hours spent whistling my time way. The bags under my eyes, well, they are the sign of the many things that I do, the children, the stresses, the happiness's, the late nights, the forgotten glasses of water... change it ... botox it ... NO WAY! I am what I am. Aged and me. Greying and wrinkly. Laughing, crying and frowning. Sunspots and freckles. Take me as I am because inside me I am still that 25 year old with a bunch more experience.

Holidays

2009-10-05T13:32:00.002+11:00

Noise, chaos
Laughter, tears
Mess and mayhem
Fast and slow
Paper everywhere
Pencils and pens
Cooking in the kitchen
Food on the floor
Clothes in the hallway
Records go 'round and 'round
Doors left open
for flies to come an' play
Friends join in
Up the tree and down
In the sandpit, trampoline and swing
Ropes tied from here to Timbucktoo
Breaky from 8 till 10
and lunch from 2 till 4
Dishes left on the sink
Dinner nearly forgotten
and bedtime slips out of control
Books devoured
Games all over the floor
Projects spill into each other
Curtains drift in the breeze
Then....stop

Time for school again

Alarms,
Lunches to make
Piano to practice
Beds to tidy
Hats on heads
Brush your teeth and hair
We're off and running again.

skipping song

2009-09-16T15:16:00.004+10:00

peel a banana
upside down
peel an orange
round and round
count to 24
then you can
go for more
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
.. .

You're out!
next one

backyard possum

2009-09-15T19:45:00.001+10:00

Something that came to me whilst I was bringing in the washing in the dark listening to the secretive and noisy possum:

Possum in the tree
He he he
Possum in the tree
He he he

Possum on the roof

Oof oof oof

Possum on the roof

Oof oof oof

Possum in the garden

Eatin’, eatin’, eatin,

Possum in the garden

Eatin’, eatin’, eatin’,

Possum in the air

Flair, Flair

Possum in the air

Flair, Flair

Possum on the fence

Running from the dog

Possum on the branch

Running from the cat

Possum on roof

BOOM, crash

Time to escape

Barking and miaowing

Possum eyes a glowing

Scamper over wires

Possum disappears

Random thoughts whilst in town

2009-08-21T08:13:00.004+10:00

The upside to working one day in an accounting firm doing admin is all of the things that I see and all of the people I meet and come across on the train, footpath, cafe, office, and just generally in the city. This week, I was really fortunate to have a chat with a friend who pushed me and nutured me into understanding where I was. I now feel much clearer and relaxed about being a writer. I feel relaxed about the journey that I am on. I feel excited about the journey that I am going on. Most importantly, I feel focused. Feeling focused has actually opened my mind up. Amazing. Feel free to keep popping by to be with me on my sometimes bumping journey as a writer.

Here are some of the things that caught my eye and mind yesterday:

***********************************************************************************

People walking purposefully through the city talking loudly to themselves. Who are they talking to? Why are they talking so loudly? What has become of our city with all these people slowly going insane talking to themselves barking orders? They draw closer. Plugs are in ears. Tuned in elsewhere. Minds are with somewhere else. Can they see the word around them any more...

***********************************************************************************

Pop into a stationery shop to buy a USB stick and from the moment that I walk in the door I am lost. Four different floors to go into. Where shall I go? Why don't they have a signpost? What about a GPS given out at the door. Why am I the only one that can't work out where to go...

***********************************************************************************

Man in the foyer. Placard with hand written words in text stuffed in his backpack. Scruffy hair. Furiously scribbling notes onto a pad. Lines are all uneven. Clothes are all uneven. Oblivious. Suits are around. Scared. What will he do? Will he combust? Waiting. Waiting. Holding phones to their ears. Pretending to talk. Looking away. Waiting. Sitting. Waiting.

***********************************************************************************

Pass lieing in gutter. Photo side up. Rob French. Who are you? Why did you drop your pass?
Left in the rain, ripped off, lieing, floating away.

distraction

2009-08-17T12:32:00.002+10:00

distractions
here and there
waiting & watching
lurking in the corners
procrastinating

jobs calling
piling up
mountainous ranges
overwhelming
toppling

order
lists
plans
turn off
switch off

......

Samson

2009-08-11T10:23:00.002+10:00

This was an exercise I did in my Wednesday Workshop with Emilie Collyer to see a season as a person and write about it in a short amount of time. See if you can pick the season.

Samson woke late and slowly from under his thick doona and after rolling over three times and burying his head under his head under his three pillows, he stretched a very long wide stretch and yawned a very long yawn. His eyelids still felt very heavy as his rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands and then he gave his beard a nice big scratch. It really was time to get up. Samson climbed out of his double bed, which was just a little too small for him, and sat on the edge with his feet on the old dusty rug he had inherited. He took in another big yawn and slowly stood up to greet the day in his dingy dusty old room. It was now 7.45am and his alarm had gone off at 6.30am, however, he didn't have the energy, or couldn't be bothered rushing into work, especially after the day he had yesterday.

Samson was a short man with dark hair and a very unkempt beard. He had always kept to himself at work, and thought that he had always gotten his job done, eventually. He didn't like to talk a lot, and always wore extra clothes to work because he believed the office was too cold. When he brought up the issue, it had quickly blown up into a stowrm, and Samson had really let loose with his fury. Now there was a real mess to clean up, and he didn't want to go in there to do it. He was hoping that it would be cleaned up for him.

He quietly shuffled his way down his dark hallway to his kitchen to make his breakfast to begin his day. He must face the storm he had created.

Dawn... Dead of Night....Dawn

2009-08-10T14:01:00.005+10:00

The brightness of dawn sparkles with freshness and light, awakening the day.
The crispness is in the air around.
Alert, awake, alive and ready for action.
Hearing the birdsong and breath in the fresh air.

Silence and darkness creeping around.
Pools and spots of light spill down.
Stealth is the way and solitude is the preference.
Fear of noises as unknown eyes glimmer and gleam.
Tiptoe around.
Bang into walls.
Angry shouts in the laneways,
Tin lids clatter and clang.
Sobbing "I love you's"
Doors slamming, wheels squeal
Silence
Darkness
Stillness
Doors shut
Tiny mouse feet tiptoe up walls
Leaves brush on the roof
Possums clamber up the tin pipe
Silence
Darkness
Snore
Silence

Light
Sparkle
Birdsong
Rays of sunshine
Smiles
Sweet talk
Gentleness,
Nods of hello
Walkers chat to each other
Dogs pant
Birds sing to the day
Flowers lift up their heads to welcome the day
Good morning sunshine
Happy to be here
Hello

This was something from my Wednesday workshop with Emilie Collyer last week where we had to write about the character associated with the time/s of day. Quite enjoyable once I got into it.

the life of the migraine

2009-08-10T11:14:00.004+10:00

The vice across my forehead presses and compresses invading every thought. The crater at the top of my head is filled with rotten lava. I need to squeeze my head really tightly to stop the pain and wrap it in a cold pillow, thousands of cold pillows shrouding myself from the world; the noise, the light, the complications, the decisions, the smells.

My jaw throbs in sync with the crown of my head. Sleep doesn't come even though I am now nestled in those pillows cowering in the dark, thick with sedating drugs. Pain overwhelms me and takes over my psyche. My eyeballs are bruised and every roll and movement is painful. Time ticks by as I wait it out hoping something will work. Three days now have gone and I am tired. My patience with the air around has all by dissipated. I want someone to fix me so I can move freely again. It's the right side now mixed with an overall headache if that is possible - who knows. Left to start - always the worst - like a foreigner, an alien invasion in my head I feel like I cold remove it. It is so tangible with a line where the pain starts and ends. Like a paralysis, a stroke, if you like, loss of sensation from eyebrow to nose to jaw to eye at moments lost of sensation to then heightened sensation in an overbearing way. I look in the mirror and my eye lid is half closed and drooping.

I will not be able to sleep until the pain has dropped away...

I shower to try to wash the pain down the drain pipe.

Everything makes no difference and nothing makes any difference.

The oil burner glows with the lavender, rosemary... I cannot bear the smell any longer, it makes me feel ill. I blow it out.

I know it will end, eventually, but it is all a matter of when.

Then finally...and suddenly, and quite inexplicitly it's gone and after the hangover, after the post migraine tiredness, renewed energy. Life again. Breath again, move again, speak again and smile again. Don't look back, just in case it sees me again and catches me to slay me down again.

sales stranger at my door

2009-07-24T14:21:00.002+10:00

a ring on the bell
who is it now
count kids off one, two, three
dinner on the stove
ready to boil
balls going like missiles
'cross loungeroom
down hall
still ringing the bell
"coming" I shout
.
a stranger in blue
with lanyard and pass
clipboard and flyers
"not interested"
words of power, gas and electricity
all to save save and save more
boil the pot over
slamming the door
.
not welcome sales strangers
we think not at the door
with pots on the stove
children running amok
go home to your own house
to the warmth of your food
where your love awaits you
.
friends come in and eat
drink at my table
join in our mess please
we have more than enough

In the dead of night

2009-07-07T21:24:00.004+10:00

Melbourne Laneway, originally uploaded by amd300466.

Doris was exhausted. It was now 4.38 am on the clock at the 24 hour MacDonalds in the centre of the city and her she was still awake because awake was safe. Her head was thumping, absolutely thumping from overtiredness and dehydration. The last drink she had was not long ago, sure, she could still smell it on her own breath. The nice man, well boy really, who called himself Joe, had found her sitting on the sidewalk with a box of white wine – a nice drop too she thought. When she offered him a drink and little bit of a fun time for the night, Joe suggested that he would shout her a fun time and a drink.

It was quite a to-do to get into Macca’s because Doris felt like her legs had gone to sleep and they just didn’t seem to be working so well now. Her heels seemed to have gotten a little wobbly during the night. The strong arm of Joe had been great in supporting her through the long walk to the end of the block and now she was in here, Doris, as she did like to be called now, felt quite weary. The weight of her head was increasing by the second as she waited for Joe to come back with the drinks and the stares of the staff bore through her like lasers. At least they would see her today. They all seemed to recognise Joe as though he were a regular.

A feeling of dread began to creep over Doris. What was his treat of fun for the night? Did it involve anymore than a drink at Macca’s? The weariness was lightening up as the flight instinct took over. No more shakiness in those old worn out legs for Doris. It was time to make a run for it.

Somebody..Nobody

2009-06-26T09:26:00.002+10:00

This irrelevant life
I face the back wall
Unnoticed
Unrecognised
Passed by again, again
Smile at someone
Reach out with a little wave
"Hi...."
Hoping for something

Busy, busy, busy
Everyone
So very important
And busy, busy, busy
Noticed
Recognised
Achievers all on the road to somewhere
To busy to notice

Where am I going?
What am I doing?
Watching
Waiting
Treading
Breathing
Trying to understand why
It's so important to be important
It's so fantastic to be too busy
It's so great to be too tired

I feel tired and weary
I long for nobodies
To be somebodies
I want people to stop
And listen and talk
And sit
In silence
And so nothing
Together
And enjoy it
And remember each other

Words and Pictures - Pretty

2009-06-13T17:33:00.002+10:00

Pretty passionfruit, originally uploaded by megs threads.

Exhaustion,
I do feel
as the wind blows
straight through me
and I do choke with heavy dust
and lose a piece or two,

All my toes
twist and turn
in the bed of poo
and food that does so rot
makes them grow an inch or two,

My lovely green hands
have been burnt
by the searing sun
so dry and yellow
now they fall
gently upon the ground,

Laughter
awakens me
from a rest
as little hands
pull at me
from the fence
to hunt for balls
and treasure.

Now I sleep
as I prepare
to make my pretty flowers
that I will once again
give the treasures for the hunts,

So you must wait
with patience, please,
and feed me if you will.

With all the goodness
you can find
and a drop of juice
or two.

Thanks Pip for the "Pretty" theme in words & pictures this week. I thought that I would do something different this week. I hope that you like it.

Words and Pictures - Souvenirs

2009-06-04T15:41:00.005+10:00

Sally-Anne shoved her hand as deeply as she could into her pocket of her Faberge jeans and skulked around the shop just one more time. How long was it going to take for her mum to talk to the pharmacist? She was so over waiting. This was just tedious. There were so many other things that she would rather be doing.
Sally-Anne stopped in front of the perfumes and picked up each one of them, taking a long deep sniff. That musky one took her into that piano teacher's house. She couldn't remember the name of her, but it was always so cold and dark in that house, and silent, until her fingers hit the keys on old Zimmerman. The sound would resonate throughout that dark house trying to fill it up, unsuccessfully as it would make its way back into the music room, disillusioned with the dullifying features in the house. The sweet floral perfume suddenly took her to her Grade 3 teacher, Miss Tilly, who was always full of happiness and sparkle. Every morning she greeted the class with such a big smile that would spread over like a wash. Any tear or fear that was lingering, was washed away in that defining moment. Sally-Anne smiled even now as she thought of her.
"Come on now", her mother called. Sally-Anne snapped herself back to the present and dropped her smile, letting her hair fall over her eyes and face again. Best not to let others see too closely. The girls at the chemist called out good-bye to her, but she only mumbled as she trudged behind her mother. She shoved her hand into her pocket even further. To even it up, she decided to shove her other hand into her other pocket as she shrugged off her mother's light touch on her shoulders as they started to cross the road.
The trip home seem to take forever, even though they only lived two streets from the shops, and the time it took for Sally-Anne's mother to find the key, put the key in the hole, open the door and go through the doorway seemed to take even longer.
Sally-Anne made a beeline for her bedroom and shut the door behind her. She extracted her hands from the pockets that had now seemed to grow into her skin and opened her right hand to find her souvenir. The lipstick was a lush red colour and she was so excited about it and went to the mirror and put it on. It was fantastic. She heard the footsteps in the hall and her heart dropped. Nausea swept over her as the realisation crept in that what she had done was dreadful. She got the tissues and tried to wipe it off as quickly as she could, but it was leaving a stain on her lips, and the footsteps were so close, the door handle was turning.
"Darling..."Jackie stood there shocked. "What are you doing? What are all those tissues for and why are your lips so red? What is going on?"
Sally-Anne froze like an animal caught in the headlights. No going back now. This was not a souvenir. It was a curse. A curse that she was going to have to deal with.

Thanks Pip for hosting Words and Pictures

Review of The Flower Hunter, The Remarkable Life of Ellie Rowan

2009-06-02T14:00:00.005+10:00

Phew! What an epic read! It was very interesting information about a woman from over a century ago in Victoria, NSW and QLD, and because of my interest in painting and indigenous plants and flowers, I stayed for the journey. However, and it is a very big however, I found this to be a long and hard journey.
I did think many times that it may have been more interesting to read the articles that Ellis had written along her travels, or The Flower Hunter that she had written, with just a brief introduction by Christine and Michael Morton-Evans.
Their job was made difficult with a large amount of personal information being destroyed once she died, however, the book did appear to carry a great deal of bitterness for her life that didn't really seem apparent in the way that she conducted herself. I found that this took away from the essence of Ellis Rowan. I felt that they really drew out the pitfalls in her character that actually held her back from really being recognised as a person of significance that she so wished for.
A rather long drawn out book with rather interesting subjects of art, and botany. Difficult to score...7/10

Words and Pictures - Tucked up in Bed

2009-05-27T22:17:00.005+10:00

The morning noises slowly began to come into her consciousness as she awakened. There was a little of external and a little of the internal, almost a battle between the two. She tried to keep them out and move back into the comfortable place that she had been. Jessica pulled the warm and crunchy doona a little higher over her ears so that she could block out the sound of the elephants running up and down the hall, and the hyenas screaming in the back room. Her toes curled up against the sudden cold that hit them, so she curled herself into a very tight foetal position.
Jessica tried her hardest to will herself back to that place that she was in only moments ago where everything had seemed so peaceful, gentle and quiet. The green paddock that was so warm and green with flowers blowing gently in the breeze. She could see herself still as she had been running, as though she was still only 8 years old with no aches and pains, carefree through the tall grasses and flowers in her flowing white dress. She had been laughing out loud and running in no pattern at all. Running with no purpose other than just for the fun of it.

Jessica breathed slowly and gently. This was how she would begin the day. Remembering how to be carefree again. Remembering the fun of running through the paddocks of grasses and flowers. This is why she needed that extra moment today to be tucked up in bed.

Thanks Pip for hosting Words and Pictures again and providing me inspiration for a theme to write to!

Words and pictures - Careful

2009-05-26T14:21:00.005+10:00

Careful Steps
Originally uploaded by coastwalker
Her heart leapt as her foot slipped from underneath her. She dared not glance below. She couldn't look up, she couldn't look down, she really didn't know where he could look at all. Maybe she should just shut her eyes altogether. Mary squeezed her eyes shut as hard as she could until tears started to come out. Her fingertips were beginning to go numb now. The tips of her toes, which were wedged into her Converse runners, were beginning to lose feeling as well.
"Heelllp", She feebly called out. Would anyone actually hear her from right up here? Would they hear that tiny feeble voice through the claret ash that was beginning to move gently in the breeze?
She began to ask herself for the hundredth time why on earth she had decided to climb onto the tiled roof.
Mary pressed her burning cheek against the cold, cold tile in an attempt to find some calm. In the distance she could hear all the noises of normality. Her brother, James was calling out to her mum about something that he wanted. She could hear someone else slamming a car door and starting the engine and driving off.
"Heeelllpp me. I'm on the..." Her numb fingers loosened their grip on the cold ceramic tile and she began to slide down the roof.
The scream that came out of Mary's throat was so gutteral that it could be heard in the next block. James and his mother ran all around the house looking for where the scream had come from. They finally arrived to the claret ash side of the house to find Mary with her legs looking a little twisted.
"Mary, what have you been doing?"
"Careful" she whispered, as she grimaced and she her eyes. At least she had now gotten down.
Thanks Pip for hosting this

Mother

2009-05-17T14:59:00.006+10:00

This is the rest of short story I began the week before last. I hope you enjoy the end. Thank you for your time.

Mother (cont...)

One of the most special times that Antoinette could remember was a most gorgeous holiday at The Queenscliff Hotel when baby Julie was only nine months old. Julie was the most delightful baby of all in looks and behaviour. She slept all night and had regular naps in the day. She ate the food that was given to her. She smiled at all the people who smiled at her. Julie made all of the right gurgling noises. She was a pleasing baby who made Lazar and Antoinette very happy.

Lazar and Antoinette set off from Melbourne to Queenscliff in their old blue Mercedes in early February to stay for a week holiday. Almost everyone who saw Julie commented to Lazar and Antoinette about how gorgeous she was and exclaimed that what wonderful parents she must have. Julie was the most well behaved child there. She sat in a high chair in the dining room and ate her dinner without screaming and without throwing anything. She gurgled and smiled at strangers. She sat in her pusher when they went into all of the shops so quietly and gently. She slept through all of the nights like a baby. Julie’s parents were so pleased and proud. Antoinette couldn’t believe that parenting was so easy. Lazar just knew, of course, their children would turn out this way. Later in the evening, when she slept, Antoinette and Lazar ordered a night cap and enjoyed the beautiful views of the bay.

So it turned out that nine months later, there was to be another sibling for Julie. This time, the sibling was a baby called Michael. Baby Michael screamed all day and all night. Michael’s bassinette was moved from the Master Bedroom to the Nursery on day seven. Antoinette moved into Michael’s room on day eight. Michael did not sleep. Antoinette sang songs to Michael to get him to sleep. The bassinette did not get used; the rocking chair and the spare bed were well used. Michael bit her nipple. Antoinette cried. The baby bottles were bought and formula was found, mixed and given. Antoinette wept that she was no longer feeding Michael. Lazar worked longer hours. Julie sang songs to Michael while Antoinette cried. Antoinette cried some more. Antoinette took baby Michael to the Maternal Health Nurse for a check up and Julie sang along. The nurse smiled and nodded at the children and then gave Antoinette brochures on good old Post Natal Depression. Antoinette nodded and murmured and made the right noises, and then went home and put them in the bin. Who wouldn’t be depressed, she thought, as she rocked him?

A year went by and Michael finally learnt to talk and eat, and sleep. Antoinette slowly began to stop crying quite so much and began to get some much-needed sleep at night, and Lazar slowly started to work less. Julie sang to Michael when they played. Antoinette began to sing when she was happy and began to smile just a little more. Michael stopped crying so much and began to follow Julie around waiting for her to sing to him and play with him. There was peace again in the three-storey city house. On the weekends the children began to play by themselves before going into see Mother to ask to have their breakfast made.

Lazar was pleased to have his wife back finally. Sure, it was beautiful to see her being a Mother, but what he most loved to see her being a woman. As a Mother, she spent too much time looking tired and sad. The children seemed to take all of her energy and time. The demands that they had on her were all consuming. He had nothing to compare it to. He could not remember what his own Mother had looked like. Was she tired and sad? He could only remember that she had a beautiful perfume that she wore when she went out. He could remember kissing her and smelling that perfume on her. His own beautiful Antoinette had turned into a different woman once she had borne children. What was he to do? He needed to know so that he could make her happy, as he realised that it was his wife that was his true love. She did not wear perfume because they were not going out. Perhaps she needed more of him, more time from him so that she felt special again. He promised to himself that they would always find time to have for themselves so that they never forget who they were. His love for Antoinette in that moment was all consuming.

Antoinette bore triplets in a short eight and a half months later. The babies were born prematurely, as can happen when there are so many babies in a womb, however, fortunately for Antoinette and Lazar, they were all healthy. They spent three weeks in the neo-natal ward at the hospital after the birth and Antoinette spent every day going into the hospital to visit them. She took her very mature three and a half year old daughter and her nearly two year old son with her every day. Lazar’s work suddenly needed his presence. There were whisperings apparently, that things were getting a little shaky around the place, so it was important for him to be seen to be there. Whispers of an economic meltdown. There wasn’t enough time for crying this time. No time for any kind of meltdown. There was only enough time to collapse at the end of the day. After the three weeks when the babies, Molly, Amanda and Kate, came home, the house just became a place of nappies and routine. Julie took on the role of second in charge. When Mother was already singing, changing a nappy, or feeding, Julie would rock the bassinette and sing to the baby. Michael played with his cars around the bassinettes and over the heads of the babies. Occasionally he would headbutt whichever baby was being fed and then Julie would quickly try to play with him instead.

Julie couldn’t remember which happened first, whether it was Mother stopping singing or Mother stopping smiling, however sometime when the baby girls were still babies, mother just stopped. This isn’t to say that everyone in the family wasn’t well looked after.
Mother was always very careful to ensure that the children were well fed. Nutrition was a very important thing to Mother. All the children had to have three pieces of fruit, five servings of vegetables, a piece of meat, a glass of milk, a piece of cheese and four serves of cereals every single day.

She was also a stickler for teeth brushing. Antoinette would line the children up morning and night and floss their teeth, and then brush their teeth for two minutes each. She believed everything that her dentist told her and did not want her children’s mouths to be full of decay.
Mother also followed the cleaning and the washing to the letter. Antoinette read all there was to read on cleanliness and then enforced it. She bought every new product that came available. There was no way that she was letting her children have any germs getting near them. She scrubbed and bleached and rubbed and soaked and scrubbed and rinsed and mopped and wiped and sprayed to make sure that nothing could come close to those children.
Mother cooked all of the food from the raw product to ensure that there were no preservatives or additives going into the children. She started the evening meal at midday to ensure that it was cooked on time and laid the table for breakfast with the homemade muesli the night before. Nothing would touch her children.

Lazar and Antoinette could never go out because there was no one that was good enough for Antoinette to look after the children and she had no time or energy. The time had come, Lazar had felt, when Julie was 10 years old, that they should be able to leave the children alone for the evening with a babysitter. It was time, he felt. There had been much discussion, angst even, between the pair leading up to the night.

Don’t be a child, he said, Julie would be able to look after younger children if they need it. She has always been good with them.

The night finally here, Antoinette looked at Lazar and she just smiled.

petrified

2009-05-15T12:32:00.005+10:00

I lie there unable to move. My hands are frozen together, clasping each other. My feet are crossed. My neck is cranked to the side and I am staring through these strange sunglasses into the reflection in front of me. I can hear myself think, but only just. The external sounds are overwhelming. The sound of an industrial vacuum and the drill take over my consciousness and I lull myself into the rhythm that they bring. Beyond them I can hear the piped sound of Penguin Cafe gaily singing through the speakers, oblivious to the proceedings.
The murmurings of the people to each other, or was it to me?
"Open wider please, and turn this way a little more."
"Not much longer, now, you're doing really well"
Mutter, mutter, murmur, murmur. I stare blankly at the reflection of in her glasses, hoping to see - or not. That hose is bruising my mouth and hurting my gum. My mouth is so dry now that my lips are going to crack. I just want to drink. My neck and jaw ache now, I want it to stop. She said to put my hand up if it was all too bad. What exactly did she mean by that?
My hands stay frozen. I try to move them. I am not afraid. Swap them around and move my feet.
"Are you OK?"
I look at her. What can I say? I can't speak with a drill and two suction vacuums in my mouth! I am just trying to relax! I can barely move! I feel like my body has slowed to be almost in unconsciousness....
"Time to rinse now..."
Time to awaken

Review of Dissection by Jacinta Halloran

2009-05-12T13:17:00.003+10:00

Dissection is Jacinta Halloran's first published novel and was shortlisted for the Victorian Premier's Literary Awards in 2007. I found, after a bumpy start, that this novel provided a window into the lonely world of a GP who has a revolving door every 15 minutes. In those short 15 minutes they are expected to analyse, problem solve sometime very complex issues. Jacinta takes the reader through the most difficult and probably most depressing and isolating time for a GP (Anna). The reader is taken into the most introspective thoughts of a very depressed and persecuted woman.

She deals well with the issues of how much is expected of GP's in that tiny time slot in terms of diagnosis and how easy it is for things, especially the rare and more complicated cases to get missed.

I found that the novel began a little tongue tied and I was initally frustrated with the introspection of the perspective, however, as I got over 1/2 way, I understood that some of this introspection and constant self-talk was due to her sense of mental health.

The end was not too neat and quite realistic. Jacinta has done a good job writing about what I expect it probably a pretty delicate subject given that she herself is a GP.
Well paced. 8/10

Words and Pictures - Fragrant

2009-05-08T11:33:00.006+10:00

Mother
The strong aroma of the sweet perfume wafted through warm three-storey house until it alerted all of the occupants as if it was an early warning signal. A sense of foreboding was felt in the younger children whilst they finished their early dinner. As the hairs on the backs of their necks prickled, their food began to turn to a tasteless lump, churning over and over in their mouths. Their elder sister, Julie, tried to hurry them up with their crumbed lamb cutlets and steamed vegetables. She sang to them hoping to soothe them, like their mother would. Not long now, she thought, until they would be in bed, and then hopefully they would go to sleep. Maybe she would need to sing to them again.
Antoinette stared wistfully at herself in her red lingerie in mirror as she hooked her silver and ruby earrings in. Finally after all of these years she and Lazar were having a night away from her children. A night to feel like a woman again. She generously sprayed the perfume in the air and walked into it so that the perfume would caress her whole body. Her blue silk blouse fell gently on her soft pale skin. It had been so terribly long since she had felt this lush. Antoinette put on the old silver heart locket that had belonged to her mother and hung it around her neck. It fell to rest on her decolletage and nestled into the folds of her soft silk blouse. She pulled on a beautiful full blue and cream print linen skirt. This was the first time that she had worn these clothes and they felt just luxurious on her skin. Antoinette found lifted the new navy Jimmy Choo suede shoes and stroked one of them for a short while. It was the first time for over 10 years that she had bought shoes like this. They were just devine. Antoinette slid her foot into the shoe and then the other. She was transformed into another woman.
The musky fragrance of Lazar heralded his arrival to the bedroom from the ensuite and as he sauntered in she took a good look at him. His face was freshly shaven and he smelt so delicious and he was still a little wet from the shower with just the white towel around his waist. Antoinette felt like she was taken back to being that young woman she was twenty years ago when she first met Lazar. He took her breath away when she saw him like this. She felt an overwhelming sense of powerlessness. His chest was strong and taut with just enough hair and certainly enough muscle. His arms were strong and well shaped. The tan that he got from all of that time running on the bay track in summer was still fresh even now in autumn, and now fresh out of the shower against the crisp whiteness of the towel, he looked so much younger than his years. Antoinette nearly groaned with excitement and anticipation at the night ahead of them.
It seemed so long ago that it had been just the two of them, before they had to share each other with children, before she had to give herself up to the children and have nothing left for Lazar but tiredness. Antoinette remembered the freedom and joy that she felt when she was with him, alone, truly alone. At first with Julie there had been still so much beauty and happiness for both of them. It had seemed like such a calm time in retrospect where there was so much time for each other still. The three of them had so many picnics together, went on walks together and Antoinette and Lazar held hands as they walked. When Julie slept, there was still so much time that Lazar and Antoinette had together to be alone and intimate. Antoinette would sing to Julie because she felt such happiness and she would sing to herself just for joy. Their house was always clean and tidy. Antoinette and Lazar would often have a candle lit dinner for just the two of them and they would also often have good friends around for dinner. Antoinette could remember the laughter and love that was shared between them as they shared their time. Soon, hopefully, She and Lazar would be able to rekindle some of that magic.
This story this week is part of a longer short story that I have written. If you are interested in reading more, let me know.
Thanks Pip for a great theme again this week!

Review of Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides

2009-05-08T10:36:00.004+10:00

I have just finished reading this lovely weighty tome, Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides (Winner of the Pulitzer Prize), & whilst I had a little difficulty holding the book some nights due to the weight of it and thickness of it, I absolutely loved it.

It really was a brilliant epic read about a child who started life as a girl named Callie to become the man named Cal. You as the reader are taken through the life of a hermaphrodite who is also a second generation American. The novel very cleverly takes you through the sagas of a clan's desire for survival from Greece during the battles of the Turkish wars, being accepted into America, the Michigan race riots, the desires of the heart, and the changes of technology and society. Through all of this, the abnormal gene is scientifically traced through the generations just waiting to erupt.

The characters are so deeply developed in Middlesex that I felt that I knew Desdemona, the grandmother, Lefty, the grandfather, Cal, the central character, Milton, the father, Theodora, the mother, and Chapter Eleven, Cal's brother so well by the end of the book that I felt sad to leave them.

Eugenides takes the reader through the different eras with such style and grace capturing the elements and issues with such depth that the novel has so much more to it than just a scientific journey of an abnormal gene. He deals with incestuous love without judgment, he also has the constant undercurrent theme of how migrants settle into new countries and the difficulties involved with this, and coming of age is of course at the forefront.

The epic novel is broken into three books with the first taking you back to Greece with Desdemona and Lefty beginning their journey together, and you as the reader are left wondering whether it is by choice or that there are no other options for them. The second book is the journey of Milton and Tessie (Theodora) who are Desdemona and Lefty's child and their cousin Sourmelina (Lina) their cousin's child respectively and how their love for each other is irrepressible. The third book is the journey of Calliope, or Cal, or Callie, who is the child of Milton and Tessie and the torment that she goes through as she reaches, then passes puberty. All three books are in Cal's voice and are intercepted with moments of his life and the struggles that he has with this now.

Eugenides has managed to write something so well that could have either be over clinical, or over emotional, and he has done neither. He has written a brilliant epic novel that raises issues for parents who give birth to hermaphrodites, and a brilliant read for everyone else. Thank you Jeffrey.
My Score 9.5/10

Words and Pictures - Rainy Days

2009-05-01T16:45:00.004+10:00

worms
Originally uploaded by chromatophobe

Annabelle sat in the chair looking at the rain through the window. She knew that there would be no going back now. This was the start of the rest of her life. The rain had changed everything. As a shiver ran up her spine, she pulled the rug that her grandmother had crocheted for her a little tighter around her shoulders. Tucking her feet under ample bottom she pulled the rug so that it stretched around her knees. Today was really the first day of the rest of her life. The rain had not fallen for so long she could hardly remember what the sound was when it had started to fall, but then she was taken right back to her childhood. She could remember how every year it rained for months and stopped for months, and then over the years, it gradually slowed until it stopped altogether.

Annabelle knew that she was now going to have to make some big and quick decisions as to what she was going to do to save herself and those around her who were unable to save themselves. She didn't even really know what she was up against, however, she knew that it was going to be a tough battle. She needed to clear her head. Her inclination was to nestle into the comfortable old armchair, pull that rug around her and fall asleep to sound of the rain, however, that could possibly be the most dangerous thing that she could do.

Annabelle looked out the window. In the far distance through the heavy rain she thought she saw some movement. Her heart leapt. Her hands were shaking. What did she need to get organised. She had gone over this so many times in the past decade at the compulsary six monthly Community Safety drills that she had attended. She could hear the sirens ringing in the distance, the same ones that rang during the drill. Annabelle jumped up out of her chair and flew into the laundry, changed into her safety clothes and grabbed the large container of Anti-Worm Mixture that everyone had been supplied with. It was all coming back to her now, as though she was a robot. She took the dispenser out of the container and tipped a cupful of the mixture over the top of herself. She would now hopefully invisible to those worms that were coming. She had to move quickly now. There were the two elderly neighbours that needed to be taken care of and the perimetre of her house that had to be dealt with.

Annabelle went through the motions just as she had always been instructed to do, starting with pouring a track of the Anti-Worm Mixture around her own house. It was no good getting the others if her own house was unprotected. Once her house was safe, she ran as fast as she could. She had pulled a plastic bag over her head so that the mixture didn't wash off while she picked up the neighbours. Annabelle tripped over a big lump on the path that hadn't been there before. Her gloved hands hit the ground as she saved herself. Freak out! That was George from next door. She could see that he already had worms coming out of his ears. They moved quicker than it had ever been explained to them. Annabelle threw up in the bushes. She had to move quickly. Maybe she wouldn't be able to get to Maude in time. She checked herself for worms like they had explained to her. They only went to where there was skin or orifices or open wounds. Her socks were tucked in to her pants, gloves on & sleeves were tucked in, and scarf around her neck so that only left her head. She couldn't see any on her gloves so she brushed her face and head just in case. Then she ran as fast as she could to Maude's place.

Maude opened the door to Annabelle in the most welcoming of ways. She had her container of Anti-Worm Mix ready to go, but was too frail to put it around the perimeter of the house. She really needed Annabelle to help her. When she saw Annabelle, she broke down in tears and fell to the ground. There really was no hope. Annabelle fell on top of her as the worms, that had initially been so tiny on her glove, had now grown so quickly once they had begun to feed in her eyes. They would begin their new life now in these bodies, these human vessels. This was their world now.

Thanks Pip for the theme for this weeks theme of "Rainy Days" for words and pictures! Join in & play along.

the pier

2009-04-09T13:47:00.004+10:00

Here is the start of a little story I wrote:

She stared with wonder at the beautiful old pier as the waves caressed the pillars holding it up. She wondered how it was that her family, who seemed so dishevelled, was able, even allowed to be standing there. There was such peace and serenity to the pier. A grandness that came with the pier, as though it had been given the formal education at a good school. It just didn’t fit her family. It was for people who wore cream cinos in summer with polo shirts, flowing linen dresses and knew just how to do things just right every time. They were the happy people who didn’t get angry at their children when they were tired, every day. They were the beautiful people with beautiful clothes and good jobs, surrounded by laughing happy friends. Here she was staring at the antithesis of this beautiful perfect world on the magical grand pier. How was it hat they had managed to miss out on those vital life lessons that everyone else seemed to get? It was as though she and Bill spent their entire lives in a fragmented discourse. Constantly trying to understand what the other was trying to say or do with the children. There did no ever seem to be any smooth or direct conversation that other mature couples seemed to have. Felicity wondered sometimes whether they had just forgotten to grow up or maybe their parents forgot to teach them these final lessons. They were both lethargically passive, although Felicity did have moments of outburst that would and could be classified as downright aggressive and other outbursts that were full of energy. Her lethargy mainly came from shear exhaustion of carrying the whole family along.

Felicity wondered when Bill would realise that Jim their youngest really was interested in fishing and would really like it if he would too. She had told him, but it seemed to in one ear and out the other. It was the same with all the other things that the 4 kids were interested in. She could tell him about it, he would nod as though he heard and then it would be a complete surprise again the next time she spoke about it. All she wanted was for him to embrace an interest in the kids. No, who was she kidding. All she wanted was for Bill to take an interest in something. If Bill took an interest, a passion, a zest, a zing, a zang in something, Felicity may well find that life back in her eyes. She was just so bored with the humdrum of it all. To have to remind him of everything, saving the same thing over and over. It was a like living with at goldfish. She did quietly wonder if Alzheimer's had set in a little early. At lunchtime that day she had imagined his brain was just rotting and turning to a soggy grey spongy blob because it wasn’t being used anymore. No brain left by 45 years old. God, she felt weary. All of those years ahead to help with the homework to be left to her because he’ll be as helpful as a pig in shit. Felicity did wonder sometimes if she couldn’t just shut her eyes and open them and she would suddenly be having an intellectual conversation. She would hopefully be talking with someone about the very clever engineering of the pier, or the amazing craftsmanship of the pillars. Maybe he would be passing on the pearls of wisdom to the children in a calm patient and loving manner, gently touching and caressing their soft heads.

Leave me a comment please as to what you think!

a written word...get to know me

2009-04-08T00:29:00.000+10:00

This is more my written blog. Just to write...because I have to write. I would love to get feedback on what I write.

Anyway, a little about me:

meg, mother of 3 boys & wife to one
38 yrs old

I write, read, draw, think, sew, knit, cook, garden, play the flute and make a lot of mistakes in all of those.

I write because it is like a compulsion within me. The words just come out of me. It is very new for me to write at length on the computer. I am used to writing by hand (hence the name "by meg's pen"). I have numerous exercise books with scribblings down in them and tiny pieces of paper with words on them. I sometimes wish that I could write as fast as I could think so that I could capture all of those crazy thoughts before they have run away again.