justafalsealarm
A ghost of aviation She was swallowed by the sky Or by the sea, like me she had a dream to fly Like icarus ascending On beautiful foolish arms Amelia, it was just a false alarm Maybe I’ve never really loved I guess that is the truth I’ve spent my whole life in clouds at icy altitude And looking down on everything I crashed into his arms Amelia, it was just a false alarm
Sunday, February 27, 2022
MEETING COLM TOIBIN ON HIS HOME TURF
Wednesday, December 22, 2021
ISN'T IT A PITY: A LOOK AT PART 1 OF A NEW BEATLES DOCUMENTARY
Wednesday, September 8, 2021
The Bookshop of my Dreams
Saturday, July 3, 2021
The New Boy
Saturday, December 19, 2020
Tuesday, December 8, 2020
TRANSITION. DECEMBER 2020
We drove- or rather I
drove- all the way to Richmond in traffic whilst you sat in the back seat with
your older sister- a more experienced
traveller at almost 15, but still naïve and high school inexperienced in many
ways. Then you, on the precipice of change, chatting away at 12 and waiting,
expectant, but no doubt trying to push things to the side or back of your mind.
Things. What things? New encounters, mixing with people you do not know, a sea
of unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar experiences awaiting you like a grey tide of
uncertainty.
When we arrived, we parked
just before the school crossing and I could see that you didn’t really want to
get out of the car. The short walk across the road and into the grounds of the
school were probably mildly terrifying; similar, but at the same time so different,
from Mandela’s walk out of the prison on Robben Island. His was freedom, yours
not so embracing.
Inside the gate there were
adult helpers who told us about the lists. I found yours first. Melba 2, it said.
Your sister told you she was in Melba 1 when she was in Year 7 last year. Then your
sister simply disappeared. The right attitude. ‘Stand up, like I had to do last
year’, would have been the silent message. And that philosophy was the same
kind of thing for me. The clutch of Melba 1 students- maybe about a quarter of
them- were sitting underneath a tree, and there was no adult in sight. I was
glad I was not holding your hand. And I was glad that you didn’t insist I stay
and sit with you.
In fact, I was impressed
with your fortitude, which you somehow dragged up from the depths of your soul.
I briefly introduced you to a couple of girls- ‘I’m from a primary in South
Yarra…’, etc, one said, and I asked if you could sit down, then after a few
minutes I told you I would be back soon. I went to another ‘house’ and looked
for the only other girl you knew beside your sister, but just fleetingly. As a
reinforcement during the day if you needed it. I glanced over to you, often,
and caught your eye a couple of times with a little wave, but mostly watched
you clandestinely, noticing your attentiveness to the other girls. Not talking,
but listening, and learning, and navigating that awkward situation where you
know nobody but other people seem to have some knowledge of each other as they
sit smiling. You, a portrait of innocence, your childish multi-coloured backpack,
your hair in plaits with a red heart-shaped adornment on each braid.
In desultory, threatening
weather and a soft cool breeze, it started to rain, and the Melba 2 group
leader- very young looking herself- began dragging you all away. I wandered
over and said ‘have fun, darling’, and I was away. The sky turning charcoal and
me hoping it wasn’t an omen.
I think back to a similar
day two years ago with your sister- in fact it was the first day of the school
year- and recall her anticipation and nervousness. I think of these days accurately
or otherwise as being like Wordsworth’s ‘spots of time’, encounters that are
completely new and challenging but will define you and shape you. Experiences you
will always remember, like a wedding day, or a particular birthday, but
essentially experiences that herald change or growth or some kind of
significance in you.
I know you are 12 but it
still feels a little like I abandoned you, but not abandonment in the gross or
cruel sense, but rather leaving you in a foreign and challenging environment, but
hopefully not a hostile one. I sit here at home typing this some hours into the
day, with our newly arrived dog next to me, sitting on the couch. And I wonder
how it is going. Have you found someone to chat to? Are other kids aware of
you? Have you made them aware of you? Are you thinking ‘this new place- you
know, may be ok after all. I look forward
to 2021.’ Or is it all horribly different to this?
Another spots of time
moment for both of you, was the first day of primary school. You both had
someone you would grow to care for next to you. For the eldest, Liberty, and
still probably a best friend, even though you are now at different schools. For
you, it was Holly, Liberty’s sister, who was here just last night. So, Holly
and Liberty are experiencing the same thing as you two- a year 8 girl about to
share the school with her little sister- except different schools.
Postscript:
I watched you come out of
the wrought iron gates, waiting expectantly with a multitude of other parents. Your
face. Drained of colour and exhausted looking. Not sad as such but relieved, a
trial over for one day, only for it to be renewed in a couple of months. Will day
one next year be any easier?
‘ What would you give it
out of ten?’
‘Six out of ten’, you replied.
We climbed back into the
car to navigate the traffic home. You unpacked your emotions. Steady, calm,
even perhaps a little indifferent. Relief.
Saturday, December 5, 2020
ON SOLITUDE- 2020 and Court Green late 1962
I sit here on my bed lying peacefully
My
bookcase with my favourite books
At
the bottom of my feet
About
a half metre from the end of my bed.
The
red curtains are closed and
The
windows jammed shut.
The
air is a little thick with
My
restlessness and torpor.
I
call it ennui and it is a
State
of nothingness and helplessness
And
feeling the need to do something
But
being uncertain about what it is.
It
is a heavy press on the mind and it is
I
think, a reflection of dissatisfaction and
Unfulfillment,
but at the same time
A
sense of nagging responsibility and guilt.
No-one
is here besides me and yet
I
feel this presence urging me to do something
Which
is oppressive in its weighing down.
It
does not come completely from outside but
Rather
within as if I owe it to myself. I wonder
If
it is connected to my body. I don’t
Think
so. It feels rather more connected with my mind.
My
mind takes me to places like Court Green
In
Devon, England where I feel compelled
To
visit the two star-poets who live there with their little
Young
daughter, escaping the rat-race of London and
Inhabiting
this new huge dwelling
Surrounded
by a graveyard, a church and a yew tree.
Having
so much space suddenly, being able to call out
Loudly
from one room to another
Without
being heard, but somehow still feeling
Restless
and rather isolated and not in tune with
The
people around them. A dream house in a dream
Setting
which proves to be a fabrication of the mind.
She
feeling some contentment in finishing her first novel and
Feeling
the poems- many good ones- unearth themselves and
He,
her husband, feeling less secure, missing the brightness and hope of
The
big city and being young enough still to be
Attracted
to bright lights and like-minded people
And
the cosmopolitan aspect of everything, not
Terribly
domesticated and not fulfilled with pram rides
With
his daughter and blackberrying and wandering
Around
town, and a pregnant wife whose moods can
Alter
very suddenly, whose own moods are very changeable, who
Is
about to be lumbered any day with a second child which
Threatens
harmony and promotes restlessness even further and
On
top of this is about to be visited by another woman whose eyes
Are
mesmerising and whose smile and body encourage all sorts of
Wild
fancies and lustful imaginings and the promise of a
Much
more vibrant and intoxicating lifestyle compared to
The
steady and monotonous hum of regular and steady life at Court Green.
One
holds fort like Penelope whilst the other
Searches
for who he really is, desperate to
Rediscover
who he is as well as his
Literary
life which has lay dormant for quite a while,
He
eventually forcing a rupture, obliterating the
Family
unit in order to fulfil insatiable needs, her voice
Reaching
its peak and hanging on grimly and precariously
As
a candle that pretty soon is going to snuff itself out.