The Cerebral Mum

My computer is at least 1000 years old and was cobbled together lovingly by my friends PC and Shaun using discarded parts and ingenuity. My monitor is the size of mouse poo and I had been rapidly shrinking the display on it as the edges became blurrier and blurrier. Last night it fizzed. This morning it popped.

I am now going to do something which goes against the grain with me and talk about money. I say goes against the grain partly because I think I have read too many English novels and partly because I have a very specific notion of “class” which is worthy of a post in itself. But this is my blog and I’ll cry if I want to, cry if I want to, cry if I want to…

Money is just money. You can do fun things with it but beyond covering the bare necessities, it’s really not that interesting. This morning when I heard that ominous sound, it really did seem like being able to access my computer was a bare necessity. It was a disaster of untold proportions.

What was I to do while I drank my morning coffee if I couldn’t look at all my site statistics to see who had been reading my blog? How was I to transfer the loan payment for the house I can’t afford to live in, already a day late? How was I to download the forms I need to fill out so I could go back to university next year? They are due in 3 days and I can’t afford the late fees. And tomorrow is Big Sis’ birthday: I need to make a lemon meringue pie. All my cookbooks are packed. If life without books is hard, life without books or my computer is untenable.

So panic. I need a monitor. I need a monitor now.

And I needed to buy laundry detergent. And toilet paper. And baby formula. And a present for Big Sis’ birthday. And I’m scraping the bottle of the change barrel. Last month we were down to our last few cents to keep us in milk; this month… Money is sometimes depressing. So off I go, with $35 in my pocket for the next three weeks, hoping against hope that somehow I will find a way. If only formula wasn’t so bloody expensive. It’s not like I would have ever started feeding Cas the stuff if I had had a choice. (Cleft palate children can’t breastfeed.)

Fortunately, or so I think, I live at the end of the earth in an outer suburb that used to be a separate town, where dead-end drug users shoot up behind the op shops and pawnshops which breed here like flies. I try one. I try another. The only monitor I find even close to my price range is $25. That’s too much.

And that’s depressing.

So my mind starts adding up all the things I wanted to do, that I cannot. Like the present I was hoping to buy for Caspar’s first birthday, that present I’ve had my heart set on for ages.

And I cannot buy it. My little drummer boy’s first birthday and I cannot buy him that special gift I know he will love.

Now that’s depressing.

So I move on. I find good laundry detergent I can afford, $2 a box. I find a pink leather iPod cover for $3.50 to give to Big Sis. That’s a nice present. I realise that Caspar doesn’t need the most expensive baby formula any more. He eats 3 meals a day and his digestive system has matured enough so that it won’t make him constipated and gassy like the last time I tried an alternative. I find some on sale for less than half the price of my usual formula. I have $10 left. And my mind, so hooked on the percussion desk for his birthday, lets it go.

Maybe for Christmas.

I start to calm down.

I leave a message for Shaun. He always has computer junk lying around. So what if he’s on holiday. I won’t die. Big Sis has a computer and it doesn’t matter if I have to reset every password I’ve ever had because I rely on my computer to remember them for me.

And two days ago, Caspar took my pen from me and did real scribbles in my notebook. I can afford crayons. He will love crayons. And I will love sitting and drawing with him and pinning his artwork on my fridge.

That’s right.

Money doesn’t matter.

I don’t like getting down to my last penny, or having to pay my bills a little late. I don’t like not being able to fix the things that break or go out for coffee every other day. Sometimes it’s stressful. Today, I had a bad hour. Verging on tears, it was still just a bad hour.

In a few months, when the house is sold and I have no more debt and I have a five figure bank balance (hopefully), Cas and I can live a slightly easier life. Perhaps I still won’t be able to buy whatever I want. Perhaps I’ll only go out for coffee once a week, but what can money buy that compares to the delight in my son’s eyes when I blow raspberries on his feet, or his giggling pride when he toddles back and forth across the room?

What can compare to his slimy kisses in the morning or the way he hands me my glasses when he thinks it’s time for us to get out of bed?

The death of my monitor was a bad hour. Not the first, and not the last.

But it’s only bloody money.

The 12th assignment from 30 poems in 30 days:

“Write a poem using syllabic verse. You can assign length ether by line or stanza. If you are stuck for a way to begin, start with this two-word ten-syllable line:

Incompatible Participation”

I wrote two, using set forms.

Summer Cinquain

Sunshine,
Lure me again
to Lych Gate; December
cherries; dense green shade; picnic lace
and words.

Winter Tanka

So long were the nights
of our grey stolen season.
Cold glitter of stars,
in the mist corporeal,
broken by morning’s bright frost.

It’s been interesting experimenting with formal structures as I have previously written most of my poetry without them, although I have used syllabics often in the past without realising that constituted an “official” technique. (Incidentally, I used them for the last three lines in each stanza of Barcelona.) I chose to use recognised forms here, without rhyme, as I did with Sapphics on the Deep in order to keep my focus on the specifics of the assignment.

But isn’t it odd what you pick up via osmosis. I remember in my first year of Professional Writing & Editing taking a long, complicated poem I wrote to my grammar teacher, the adored, illustrious Captain Slusher, and asking him to check it for me. He told me I could do it myself. I told him I hadn’t learned enough grammar yet and he said, Not consciously…

The 11th assignment from 30 poems in 30 days: Courting controversy…

“Read a poet you don’t like. Try to figure out what they do that upsets you and determine whether or not this assessment is fair. Try to think of ways that you would approach the same subject matter using your style. Write a poem that addresses some of the same subject / style / tone of the poet you dislike but do it in your own style.”

I am breaking my tradition and writing about this poem before you get to read it. The poet I chose is Robert Frost, whom I loathe and detest with a violent passion. I have heard him referred to as ambiguous but I find his work overly simplistic, transparent and smarmy. Dainty, lily-livered pop-psychology with no real sensitivity, abusing what can truly be seen through nature just to make himself appear insightful. Truly, he makes me vomit a little in my mouth.

The poem I chose was A Minor Bird and I veered slightly off the assignment by writing something of an invective rather than approaching the subject matter in a different way.

I do not need
to speak of birds
I can say the word
Depression.

I can say
I hate
the imitation of my sorrow
by a mynah at my window
or echoed in a song
in minor key.

I don’t need
pastoral devices
to disguise
my inner turmoil.

Fences do not make
good poets
Just say the word
Depression.

As I said over at The Writer’s Resource… If Robert Frost could be framed, he would be a motivational poster.

The seventh assignment from 30 Poems in 30 Days… About forms and lists…

“Write a list poem that uses a single line for each item on the list. Feel free to choose one of the topics above [topics can be found at the Writer’s Resource Center via the assignment link], or use anything else that comes to mind.”

Note to Self

Don’t be so literal (This is a poem)
Don’t be so linear (And then and then…)
Use an adjective (Now and again)
Or a metaphor (This is a poem)

Use punctuation (It’s there for a reason)
And capital letters (For proper nouns)
Finish your sentence (See how it sounds)
And rhyming won’t kill you (This is a poem)

Say something smaller (It’s all in the detail)
Say something greater (What does it mean?)
Write of the seen (No, of the unseen)
What does it matter? (This is a poem)

I truly do think this is a bloody awful poem. I started this list before writing Sapphics on the Deep when I was quite frustrated with what I had been writing, but the subject of my list puts me in mind of a poem I really like by Edward Morgan, Opening the Cage. And while looking for a link so you could read it, I found another based on the same John Cage quote, John Cage by Dillingworth. Both of these put my effort to shame.

And if you’re interested in John Cage or jazz, this short film in three parts is worth watching:

Sound (1966-67), Pt. 1
Sound (1966-67), Pt. 2
Sound (1966-67), Pt. 3

The 9th assignment from 30 poems in 30 days… A brief glossary of metre…

“Write a poem using a specific meter. The meter can be of your own choosing or even your own making, as long as you put a pattern into place.”

Sapphics of the Deep

Clams without teeth stopper their jaws and bind the
Currents; white flotillas of paper beach on
Tideless shores; I walk through convention, silenced,
Greeting the grey men.

Speaking nothing, language reduced by empty
Habit; sounds now mindless, unmade, like boats that
Drift in shallows, seeking no stormfront, sighting
No more the giants.

Leashed what once was swollen with Gods and Jung and
Darkness; thick, primordial waters made of
Words like squid, electric and phosphorescent
Colours in ink moved.

Never having worked with meter before (I don’t count bad sonnets) I chose, in my ignorance, to use sapphic meter. It had been my intention to publish just the one post tonight with all my “catch-up” poems and call it Bloody awful poetry… Instead, I am bloody proud of this and it gets to have a post all of it’s own.

Let me just say, Sapphics are hard.

Perhaps someone better-versed in scansion than me will find fault with what I have written. It is possibly imperfect. But I didn’t know what a trochee was before I started this and working with such an unnatural meter, in a language the meter was not intended for, I think I succeeded.

Not only that, but I have been frustrated by the simplicity of my previous poems and their lack of imagery. I used to write poetry in a very stream-of-consciousness way and it was dense with symbolism, not deliberately but because my mind thought in pictures.

Finally, I have written pictures with my words again.

I’m not sure if I let you all know how Caspar’s hearing test went after his surgery and I’m too tired to check at the moment, but he can now hear properly. At his age, they only test the normal vocal range but that is the most important part. Anything else will just be what it is.

What I can tell you is that he knows words. Quite a few words.

He has known nose for a good while. It took me some time to realise this as he points to noses a lot and at night when I put him to bed I always say, Beep Beep. Have a good sleep. With appropriate actions. I know this is tragic but I did it once and he liked it. He is the final arbiter of my taste.

(Except when the most interesting thing on TV is an ad for the latest obnoxious ringtone. I have to draw the line somewhere.)

Anyway, after exhaustive testing, he knows nose.

The second word I learnt that he had learned was a little out of left-field: Buddha.

That’s what I said. Buddha.

I have a large wooden carving on my mantelpiece that he likes to be held up to (to poke its nose!) and whenever he is upset or crying, taking him to see Buddha works like a charm. No, Hush, hush, there, there…, just, Let’s go and see Buddha, and everything is roses again. If you have a very unhappy baby and no hair left, I highly recommend investing in the tubby philosopher.

Cas is also quite comfortable with ears, especially Buddha’s ears, but doesn’t yet find other facial features particularly worthy of his interest.

He has become au fait with toad and fish and frog and can confidently point to cats and dogs in real life as well as picture books.

He knows which family portrait in the hallway is Oma.

(He might know which one is Mummy as well but that could just be wishful thinking.)

I will not recount all the words he knows (yes, no, thank-you, good and more are not thrilling to anyone but me) but I will skite about the most impressive phrase to date.

Reading has been something of a struggle lately. He has become more interested in turning pages than listening to words. He has been trying to work out this miraculous process for some time but it has eluded him. With a little help from Mummy however (consisting of a finger between the current page and the next) he can get the job done. Since he discovered this, I have had to hold all books out of reach to avoid his impatient and somewhat destructive fingers.

Today I discovered that simply saying, Turn the page, solves this problem much in the same way Tinkerbell’s tinkle did when I was listening to Disney stories on vinyl.

Tomorrow, he will be 11 months old. He knows what Turn the page means. I am doing something right.

Then again, he knows that if he follows me when I say, Pee pee pee pee peeeee… he’ll be allowed to pull the toilet roll.

We have to be at the hospital again tomorrow. I am now beyond exhausted.

It is only 9:30 and I am fighting sleep and trying to write poetry while I have nothing to say, while I don’t even want to say it. I am angry at nothing, as though there were wasps inside me. I am grinding my teeth.

I hate these days that have passed, this week that didn’t exist. The phone calls that didn’t get made. The appoinments that didn’t get kept. The forms I didn’t fill out. The mail that didn’t get posted. That hovering sense I’ve forgotten something important, that everything is about to come crashing down.

My house of cards.

I want some space to clear my head and breathe and stop waiting. There won’t be time for that for a while.

At the moment I feel shattered. So I shall go to bed with a book I probably will not read and fall asleep while words swim abandoned on my pillow.

Oblivion until 6am, bundling baby into the car without his breakfast.