The Cerebral Mum

The assignments I haven’t done from 30 poems in 30 days are just sitting there, clogging up my dashboard. I can’t write anything good. It feels like thinking. And I can’t think. So I’m just going to do them. Randomly. Whatever assignment I open, I’m cutting and pasting it in, then… Bang: A poem! In 30 seconds. I don’t even care how bad they are, or good. I just want my brain to start feeling fluid again. Instead of crushed.

So..

Bang! The 10th assignment: The good, the bad and the meter…

“Write a three or more stanza poem that uses a metered style for the first two stanzas and a non-metered format for the remaining stanzas.”

My head is just imploding,
I don’t know what I’m saying,
I’m sick of all this thinking,
There are no words left in me.

Numb and poetry is lost,
Blind and all my meaning gone,
Nights too short and days too long,
There are no words left in me.

I hate this.

I hate my stuck mind,
I hate my lost time,
and yesterday
and nothing.

There are no words left in me.

Bang! The 17th assignment: The constraint as a tool.

“Wikipedia’s Random Button is a great and magical thing. Today it lead me to an article about Cheshire Mammoth Cheese. The story of Cheshire Mammoth Cheese has everything you need for poetic inspiration. It has historical significance. It has political significance. It has small town appeal. It has people working together toward a common goaland it contains a pop culture reference. Most importantly, it has cheese. Find a way to incorporate this article into a poem.”

I’m not reading about the stupid cheese.
Seriously? Seriously?
(That’s a pop culture reference. )

I’ve heard the story before.
Cheese and politics
and highways for wolves
on The West Wing.
(That’s the pop culture reference.)

But politics isn’t like that,
It wasn’t like that then either.
Now, we talk faster.
We film it, dreaming they
Talk faster. And better.
Politics is pop culture.

Buffy likes cheese.
(That’s a pop culture reference.)

Bang! The 13th assignment: What is your writing process?

“Today is a two-part assignment. The first part is to think about your method of writing poetry… The second part is to shake up your process. If you have a lot of structure, try loosening up. If you write very loosely, try adding some structure to the process. Find a new place to write or use a different tool. The change doesn’t have to be major, but if you post your poem, please tell us what you changed.”

I normally don’t write poems
in 30 seconds bang.
I normally don’t write poetry at all.
I’m not a poet.

None of that’s true,
or it wasn’t once,
once-upon-a-time.

Then, I just wrote
and words were dark
and rich
and deep,
saturated with music
and sensation.

Redolent.

Now, nothing.

Bang! The 15th assignment: Imagism.

“Write a poem that follows the three rules of the imagists.

1. Direct treatment of the “thing”, whether subjective or objective.
2. To use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation.
3. As regarding rhythm: to compose in sequence of the musical phrase, not in sequence of the metronome.”

Too rigid, imagism.
Too conscientiously flowing. Abrupt. Flowing.
The thing is not a thing.
It expands, contracts, unfolds. It has no substance.
I am not T.S Eliot,
The thing is words, stripped words, naked, undulating.
Shock me with it. Hurts like hills and dreams and loves,
like blood.
Flowing.
Gone.

Bang! The 14th assignment: Repetition

“Write a poem that uses at least two different forms of repetition. Try to embrace at least one form of repetition that you don’t ordinarily use. “

Repeat.
Repeat.
That’s all I do.

Fucking echoing, empty
chamber of my mind.

Repeat.
Repeat.

Dead nouns. Dead signs.
No metaphor,
no semaphore,
Just dot dot dot,
dash dash dash,
dot dot dot.

Repeat.

Bang! The sixth assignment: Developing your voice…

“Take at least five minutes to meditate in a quite room free of outside influences before you write today’s poem. Try to clear your head of stray thoughts. Once you feel like you are clear and calm, write your poem. Let the topic be about whatever comes to mind after your meditation. If you have never meditated before, simply sit in a chair with your eyes closed and try to relax.”

Yeah, right. That’s going to happen. I couldn’t do it then. And I sure as hell can’t now.

How long is a second,
how long a breath?
How many moments spent,
With glass grating
my screaming head?

How long is five minutes?
Is it tense or dead?
My only thought:
Too much. I’m going
to bed.

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Eve tagged me for a meme. It the usual deal - answer the questions, pass it on. So I’m going to do it all Jung-like, as Eve did, and just say the first things that pop into my head. I have no choice about it because I only have a few minutes before Cas gets sick of the Jolly Jumper.

7 Random Things About Me

(Hey, they’re not called MeMe’s for nothing…)

1. I need to get a new prescription for my glasses. I’d rather have laser surgery.
2. I wore lipstick yesterday. That shouldn’t have been an event. I shall now add wearing lipstick to my daily to-do list.
3. I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair.
4. I used to like clomping around in my male friends’ oversized work boots. I think I’d still like doing that, given the opportunity. I have conquered my habit of stealing their fat socks, though. I think. (Perhaps this is more Freudian, rather than Jungian. You figure it out.)
5. I have a tendency to walk into lamp posts. (Is that Sartrean?) One New Year’s Eve I even managed to break a rib at work simply by carrying a food platter into a wall. I proceeded to drink my way through the rest of my shift, which ended with a brawl and a fired manager and a promotion for me.
6. When I was little, I got caught in the seatbelt when I got out of the car and my father drove off and ran over my foot. I was very brave when I was taken to the hospital and while I had my foot x-rayed. I was very brave until the doctor told me that I didn’t need crutches. Then I cried my poor little heart out.
7. And speaking of Sartre; my great-grandmother’s uncle was Albert Schweitzer, whose cousin was Sartre’s mother. I’ve never figured out what that means, genealogically speaking. My nth cousin in the nth degree?

I’m supposed to tag 7 people of course, but that presupposes I have 7 friends, with blogs, who haven’t already been tagged. Joh? Rosemary? If anyone wants a little free link-love, let me know.

I’ll be back tonight. Today is a good day.

So now, after writing about my neurotic lack of coping with the first birthday party, I should probably record here what the party was actually like.

It was held here at Big Sis’ house in the front yard and there was no need to worry about rain. The weather caused a me a little concern, though. 33° (92° fahrenheit) is way above the average for October and raised the spectre of last year’s bushfire season, which burned out 1.1 million hectares. Later, watching California burn, I couldn’t help but think of the continuing drought and what may come with the summer.

After collapsing into bed the night before without finishing all my preparations, there was a lot to do in the morning but between Big Sis, B and I, nearly everything was done on time and Caspar was kept amused outside by B’s twins and the Jolly Jumper Big Sis and B had bought him for his birthday. The kids were impatient for the party to start and I locked them out of the house while I decorated the cake I shouldn’t have put off making to the day of the party.

When P (the other half of The Odd Couple in the house behind us) arrived with his two girls, we fired up the BBQ straight away although nobody else was here yet. The kids had been patient and were hungry. I had taken the little red table I bought secondhand as part of Caspar’s birthday gift of crayons and drawing pads outside and all the children sat around him there, fussing over him and playing with his hair, as girls are wont to do.

Caspar, like the far-too-advanced boy he is, sat on his yellow chair and fed himself, not at all bemused by the female attention. He has become accustomed to it. Indeed, I think he expects it. Not long after that a couple of my friends arrived and took a seat in our circle of big-people chairs. I, of course, flapped around a little trying to make sure everyone had something to eat and drink, not quite relaxed yet.

One thing I have been consistently amazed by since becoming a mother is how many hands and eyes are there to divert and watch over Caspar while I try to get things done. This assistance seems to be instinctual on the part of parents and non-parents alike and it is carried out so graciously that there is no need for words. I read so often of mothers, especially single mothers, overwhelmed by their parenthood so I must believe myself fortunate in this respect but I can’t help thinking that this is the way it should be. I do not think the days of community in childrearing are dead and gone.

So I had a chance to sit and talk and eat while Caspar belonged to everybody.

And then, of course, the cake. With the wind, it was impossible to keep the lone candle lit but it didn’t matter. Caspar would not have been able to blow it out anyway. He could, however, recognise that the slightly sad looking giraffe with its bright yellow icing was something good to eat and we had to move it away to be dished out as he tried to grab the whole lot of it for himself.

Not long after that, the children went home and Caspar went down for a nap, pink in spite of slathers of sunscreen and warm in just his nappie and a singlet. My friends and I cleared away the dishes outside and sat in the lounge talking over a glass of wine. Later, K, the friend that I had lost, arrived and I woke Cas from his sleep so they could meet each other. A bit bleary eyed and wobbly, it didn’t take him long to start turning on his charm and show off all his skills, running around, waving, clapping his hands and putting his hands on his head. And my favourite… Dancing. He’s been head-banging since before he could sit up, and his repertoire of moves just keeps growing. He can move up and down, shift his weigh from foot to foot as he sways, stomp, writhe and spin around in circles. He’s got rhythm and whenever he hears music, he starts rocking.

And then of course, the afternoon grew late and it was time for people to leave but it was lovely having that quiet time with my three friends, and Caspar loved having all the company. There were no tears and no stress on his part.

We had a quiet evening, B cooking up the last of the meat on the BBQ and Big Sis and Cas and I eating with him at the table in the garage as the sun went down and the air cooled. Caspar sat at the big table with us, for the first time in the portable booster seat which was my first birthday present from Big Sis and B.

I tasted the cake then, a recipe I hadn’t used before but I had been assured by the party guests that it was good. I wasn’t too impressed with the giraffe I had made, but for a first effort, without any guiding instructions, it was good enough. I’m sure the cakes I make will get fancier as the years go by. Until the day Caspar tells me to stop making him such silly things. One day he will be protective of his young man’s dignity.

The cake was good! I mean, really good! And so easy. I used a simple tea cake recipe (3 quantities) and blended it in the food processor. It only took 5 minutes. Try it at home and just brush it with some butter then sprinkle on a layer of cinnamon or coffee sugar. Because, really, virulent yellow icing is not that appealing to adults.

Tea Cake

60g butter
1 tsp vanilla essence
1/2 cup castor sugar
1 egg
1 cup self raising flour
1/3 cup milk

Cream butter and essence. Add sugar, then egg, and mix until creamy. Add flour and milk and mix until smooth. Bake in a moderate oven for 25 minutes.

Last night, I was going to describe Caspar’s party and post a couple of photos. Instead, at around 8:30pm we got the news that a friend who is in hospital wasn’t likely to make it through the night. We spent the evening there.

The friend is not someone I have known a long time. Not long after Caspar was born, we got new neighbours, two men rather like The Odd Couple. Unlike most neighbours, we talked to each other and became neighbours in the fuller sense of the word. One of those men is Big Sis’ B, who we already consider one of the family, and Hughie, now in hospital, is one of his closest friends.

The majority of my social life out here at the end of the earth involves sitting around a table in their garage, talking about nothing, doing the crosswords and quizzes from the paper, and having a beer. Hughie was there almost every day. He is a wiry Englishman in his 50s, with a dry sense of humour and a quick mind. He is often the voice of reason when The Odd Couple are bickering and he has that grounded kind of energy - that broad tolerance along with that clear understanding of where he draws the line - which some people develop after living life hard, then calming down. He has a big heart and Caspar loved him. He made Caspar laugh. He made us all laugh.

And he is an alcoholic.

As I said, he has lived life hard. He spent time in jail for an assault when he was younger. He abandoned his daughter when she was three years old. But he grew and he has a great capacity for love. Sadly, he was never able to find enough of it for himself to kill off the demon alcohol was to him. He came into some money recently. He drank nearly all of it.

He met his daughter just over a year ago. She just showed up at his door one day, all grown up, a young woman he was extraordinarily proud of but could take no credit for. I met her last night for the first time. She shares his intelligence and humour and she too is grounded, in a way few 23 year olds are.

We were an odd collection of people in the intensive care unit: A daughter burdened with next-of-kin choices for a man whose relationship with her was only just beginning; His ex-wife, feeling all the frustration of a woman who was never able to help him and cannot help him now, quietly angry at herself for her misplaced sense of guilt, and quietly angry at him for making her feel it; B, that down-to-earth bloke who wanted to deny the end was coming, alternately telling jokes to Hughie’s unconscious body, then almost yelling at him, Squeeze my hand! Squeeze my hand!, then unable to stop the flow of tears when he could no longer maintain the illusion that there would be more tomorrows.

And then Big Sis and I, who only ever got to see the best of Hughie.

We left when B could not handle seeing Hughie lying there any more, full of tubes and needles, unconscious with unseeing eyes half open, surrounded by the steady beeps of the machines and their meaningless numbers moving up and down. B was still trying to find a way to make things different. His mind was still not ready to accept the reality. On the way out we passed the hospital chapel, and he stopped, saying that he was not religious but… I looked to see if there was a candle he could light - a simple, symbolic act - while he was drawn into the room. Instead I found tree branches, laden with wishes, and a basket full of paper leaves and a pen. B could not write: He only made it half way through the room before slumping into a chair, with Big Sis there beside him. I wrote out a leaf for Hughie, and for B, who could not. Then we came home.

Overnight, we received a message from Hughie’s daughter, simply saying, There has been no change. He has lasted through the night, but we remain waiting for that final call. We had a chance to say our goodbyes as best we could. And Hughie will not die alone, in spite of his very best effort to do so.

It was hard. And good.

I tend to stress a lot about parties now. They shake my foundations. They never used to. As I have repeatedly said, I have been out of the loop for a long time and that means that many of the people I care about do not hear from me as often as they should and I cannot expect them to jump whenever I set a date. It makes me feel a lonely and insecure and frightened; it is isolating. But it is an isolation which, in this case, I am largely responsible for.

I have friendships which weather distance and silence. I have friendships which do not require consistent attention to remain firm. Those friendships have within them an innate respect for each other, and a deep trust in that respect because it has remained constant in the face of all our human flaws. I treasure those friendships. But not all friendships thrive when starved of sunlight. Sometimes the attachment is not developed enough to withstand the tyranny of distance and sometimes, the nature of the friendship is something else altogether. There are “everyday” friendships as well as lifelong ones; friendships based on shared lives and shared experiences. As we go through life - change schools, change jobs, change hobbies, move away - our friendships change with us. We no longer have those connections which tied us together. I do not think these friendships are any less meaningful because of their dependence on proximity, and they are no less important to us. Currently, I have no “everyday” friendships. No one knows the petty details of my daily life; the minor passions, the small triumphs or the small mistakes. They are all invisible.

I was disappointed by the people who did not respond to my invitation, I was disappointed by cancellations. I was distressed by the idea that those who came would have too few people to talk to. I cried. Several times. My anxiety devolved into physical symptoms - a churning stomach, an inability to eat, a tension in my shoulders that screamed at every movement. And I will admit that much of my worry was superficial. In spite of my much vaunted perspective, I reduced Caspar’s party to some kind of measurement of my worth. Worse, some kind of measurement of my popularity. Wouldn’t those who came look around and think how pathetic my lack of people was?

But of course they didn’t.

It is mind-boggling how narrow our focus can become, how self-destructive we can be. How we can ignore all the things we should appreciate and simply wallow, as though our lives were hard. How we indulge our narcissistic depressions as though ennui and anomie were illnesses rather than chosen states of mind.

So here is my wealth of people and my belated appreciation. Please forgive me if it is boring to read. It deserves to be written.

For my cousin B, and all her family, who sent the most beautiful wishes and the most sensitive present, both of which moved me to tears.

For my Uncle J, isolated in truth on the other side of the world, who called me on the phone for the first time ever to give us his love.

For J and Dy, and my cousin D, who had other commitments but would certainly have been here if they could. For my cousin D’s children who are a richness in all our lives.

For R, who by rights should have been a friendship which passed with a change of jobs and yet for reasons unfathomable to me has shown me a loyalty over years which I could never do justice to. And for his family and his brand new son, all of whom I am yet to meet, and all of whom would also have been here if they could.

For C, my oldest friend, and the very measure of a friend, who needs to take care of herself right now, and not feel guilty about commitments she cannot keep.

For T, who stood up for me in court after a sexual assault, even having known me for such a short time; who lost his job, and held my hand for long months and who will always find me whenever we lose each other. Who, although he could not attend, took the time out of his full weekend to bring a present for my son whom he has never met.

For PC, whose love, like mine, is larger than our previous relationship. Who always answers my call when I need him, who provides me with second opinions when I am worried about Caspar’s medical treatment and answers all my questions patiently, even though he chose to leave his doctor’s life behind him years ago. Who, car-less, travelled all the way out here to meet my son in his first few days of life, bringing me French champagne and sushi. Who, car-less, travelled all the way out here to attend the party, although I have seen him rarely in the last two years. Who, basically, has been giving far more than he has received lately.

For H, a friend lost a decade ago, who has memories as warm as mine, and a heart as open as though it had only been days. Who has a generous spirit which made room for my selfish absorption then, and continues to do so now. Whose bear hugs at Caspar’s party brought me back to earth and the reality of all I have to be grateful for.

For K, my closest friend for many years and the only friend I have lost through a situation fraught with anger and broken trust. After years apart, she contacted me and came to Caspar’s party. Perhaps we might begin again.

For my neighbour G, who has tolerated my abandoned house, its overgrown yard and the constant vandalism there, who protected my interests before he even met me and has shown such non-judgemental consideration and support while I work to rectify the situation. Who would have been present if only a pipe had not burst.

For the 5 children who stay next door every second week, who come in to spend time with Cas and me, who pop over to bring us drawings and lollies, who were eager for Caspar’s birthday and who surrounded him at his small table, playing with his hair and pinching his cheeks. Especially for R and K and J, who blew up balloons and amused Cas while I prepared food and polished cutlery. Especially for E, who was distraught that day, as only an almost-teenage girl can be, and who emerged from her barricaded room to give Caspar his present. And especially for K, who gave up part of her own birthday weekend so she could celebrate with us.

And for Big Sis, whose patience with me has been sometimes strained but nonetheless limitless. Who helped me so much that morning, in spite of her spinal injury and her pain and still felt like she had not done enough. And for her B, who would not let me pay for ice and BBQ gas, who cooked so I could tend to the guests and who talked to everyone in spite of his shyness.

And, last but not least, for my mother. Always here in spirit, who loves me unconditionally despite our difference, who is my example and my rock. Who loves Caspar in a way that can never be matched.

There is a lot going on right now. Good things. Life things. Rather than being stuck in my fog, I am now flooded by things to do. I’m inspired again, motivated again, and that’s exciting. I won’t be taking a break - I’ve found that I can’t stay away from this blog - but I will be trying not to post every day. I’m currently considering 4 posts a week, Monday to Thursday, or every second day. I haven’t decided yet but regardless of what I decide, it can only improve what I write here.

I don’t want to burn out. I have a terrible habit of burning out and, although I used to get so much done before my candlewicks met in the ashen middle, with Caspar now I just don’t have the luxury of recovery time and I have to find new ways to be productive. That sounds so tedious, “productive”, yet that part is exciting as well. The idea of focussing my energies on the things that matter to me (including this blog), of giving them the quality and consistency of attention they deserve instead of flailing around helplessly torn between the things I have to do and the things I need to do, just seems… hopeful.

I’ve always felt as though I had a purpose but all to often that feeling has been theoretical, overwhelmed by the demands of daily things if not completely incompatible with them. At times it has been present as a burden; something I used to beat myself down with, a weapon made of imagined failure which cut me and starved me both literally and figuratively and multiplied into an army. At the worst times, it has been hidden from me entirely.

Purpose.

I don’t think purpose is something ordained at birth: I don’t think it is something given to us with the colour of our eyes. I think it evolves in us through experience: I think it is our discovery of what is important to us, the unfolding pattern of the things we care about. Whatever those things may be - and they could be anything from cross-stitch to a cure for cancer - when we are struggling to give them space in our lives, we don’t feel important. We lose our sense of connection to the world. Everything becomes grey.

Right now, in my hemisphere, life is not grey. The sun is coming out from behind the clouds and it is Spring. Life is happening again. I was asked to join an online writer’s group and am now able to post draughts from my novel, get feedback and interact again with other writers facing the same issues, so I am no longer going to put off until tomorrow what I can do today. I’ve been asked to help create a new charity, which will entail a lot of work but which will be very worthwhile. I have a stellar idea for another blog, one which will create a resource rather than a record of my personal thoughts, and I want to start on the planning for it. And I also need to put some energy into my desire to go back to university next year, fill out more forms, make phone calls, make sure I’m not just another file on the course co-ordinator’s desk.

I have a lot of purpose. And none of it is theoretical.