MALMSBURY, 2026

MALMSBURY JUNE 21, 2026 JUST alighted onto the train at Malmsbury minutes ago… it is cold and is getting dark. We know one of the singers in the folk group duo ‘Valley Road’. I know A from school days. She introduced me to M (from the band) years ago. They live on a farm with their young boys near Kyneton. M plays with Rebecca and they have released one album and have another in the pipeline. They both play guitar and on record they have a little more backing. But live, they don’t sound too dissimilar from their first record. Last year, or was it the year before, I played this CD to and from work for several months. Several songs struck me as being lovely. And in those poignant moments of uncertainty on the way to work they brought me some kind of tender comfort. One of them is called The Briny Blue. On the way on the train this morning J read The Age online and I continued Ted Hughes’ Birthday Letters. The poems are so dark, and confronting, and sad and I enjoy going back to them because there is a ‘fierce kind of intelligence’ at work here (a phrase I have picked up somewhere), and although it offers only one side of the Hughes-Plath marriage, it is a fascinating and revealing and raw side. It offers a kind of riposte to Plath, who of course had her confronting say in the rawness of Ariel. Birthday Letters seems more autobiographical though, in way the poems begin with their first meeting at Cambridge, into marriage, transatlantic travel, the vicissitudes of their existence together, birth, tragedy, psychological battles, hostilities, the move to the Devon countryside, split. Above all, though, SP’s personality, her brittleness, insecurities, personal conflict. As I said it is good to get Hughes’ perspective because Plath’s is so prominent, a slant towards her in so many biographies, and so few of Hughes- one called ‘Bitter Fame’ on Plath the main exception. So Birthday Letters took me to Malmsbury on the V-Line, as The Age did for J. The standouts that reward reading after reading: ‘Stubbing Wharfe’- inside a grubby English pub, Plath homesick, both looking for somewhere to live, Hughes trying to sell his childhood territory to a sceptical Plath- ‘These side-valleys…full of the most fantastic houses’, Plath unconvinced, dreaming of ‘the thunderous beaches’ of the Atlantic, her own English idyll of valleys of D H Lawrence’s ‘brimming gentians’, and otherwise the sour mood brought on by Plath’s sense of ‘blackness’. I might write about these poems elsewhere. They are moving. The venue was the Malmsbury pub. Valley Duo were about to begin. We found ourselves on the back table- a good one. A’s table, with the next singer and the main act- Katrina Olsen-, M’s father. Valley Duo sang beautifully and the set included The Briony Blue. When they finished, a chance to catch up with both M and A, hearing about their farm which we visited a few years ago, the music business, books and films. I also spoke to Rebecca (Bec) about The Briony Blue and learnt it was about her father leaving when she was a child, feeling a pull, needing to get away. A song, therefore, about her relationship with her father, from his point of view: ‘My God, I miss you/ I didn’t plan it this way/ I never thought I’d need to stay/ But now I look out on the briny blue/ And think of you.’ Immediately- I think of the other songs I love about relationships with fathers- ‘Everything I Own’ (Bread)- ‘ I would give everything I own/ Just to have you back again- and Justin Hayward’s ‘New Horizons’- ‘But I’m never gonna’ lose your precious gift/ It will always be this way/ And I know I’m gonna’ find/ My own peace of mind/ Someday/ Someway…’ And then I think about my father…… Katrina Olsen came on- American/ Canadian with a strong voice and many a story to tell, and quite adept on the guitar. We left before her set finished, but we could see she was good and much practised. ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… So, we are warm on the train, not far now from Woodend then Macedon. It is Sunday night and I find myself thinking about work the next day and how busy it will be. And how it holds some minor anxieties- I have done this many times- because a performance of any kind, whether it be singing, or acting, or nursing, or teaching- holds its uncertainties. I would love to swap quarters with M and A one day. But they have a thousand animals on their farm to look after. What a scary proposition for such an inexperienced person like me. If we did swap, they, on their part, would have to navigate the noise and the traffic. Perhaps this would be difficult for them- or, at least, their young children. So I enjoyed my day revisiting Birthday Letters on the train, but much more profoundly the warmth of genuine, warm interaction from authentic friends we seldom see. It felt easy and comfortable and reassuring in Malmsbury. It was fleeting but restorative. We had a good day. Let it be longer next time.

UK meanderings 2026

I STARTED reflecting on life in the UK from over 20 years ago. I often do this. I wrote the following, and then, as it says at the end, I aborted the project- gave up. Started thinking 'what is the point?' England draft 1 PREFACE: May, 2026 WHY have I decided to revisit this adventurous period of my life? Could it be that I wish to escape from my current life? Might it be that I just feel the need to be creative and I don’t know what else to do? Or might it be that I still have this bittersweet feeling of wanderlust- that I have never really got travel out of my system. That I want to revisit this period because it feels comforting and tenderly familiar. Maybe I want to document when I can, outside of what I have already done which is type out and produce my diaries. When I still can. When I can still remember. And who gets what I hope will be a long, finished book by the end? Perhaps nobody. But I hope its fate isn’t an item atop of some big book burning bonfire. Simply, I don't want to forget. So where to start? The best place is Heathrow airport. I went to England twice before- I think in '87 and then again '93. Pre-marriage, pre-kids. Little or no responsibilities. But this time was different. I knew this would be a longer journey. It felt incredibly exciting. To work overseas. As I found out, it is something else. So we came straight from hot, humid Sri Lanka. Colombo airport. October 12, 2000. ................................................................................................. Heathrow to Hammersmith, to Victoria Station, to Bearsted, Kent. Lugging those two heavy grey suitcases. One each. Absolutely pouring rain. England, my England. And there was Simon at the station, prompt. What a welcome face! He tells us about the floods- Kent, Sussex, other places. Hearing the place names still cause a shiver. I am suddenly dreaming- of Sissinghurst, Asheham, Rodmell- why all Virginia Woolf? KENT Gravelly Bottom Road, Kingswood, Maidstone, Kent, ME17 3NS What a time we were to have here. Pauline and Simon, the little Degus, the cats Missy and Tigger. The world pretty and green. Pauline had this huge property on acres and acres of land. J and I explored our first day and marvelled at its size. Borrowing gum boots. A cute little walk to get milk in Kingswood, the local town. It would be a base for a year or so- a great rock solid foundation for the time we lived there, and for subsequent times as well. Our little Eden. I have many beautiful memories of the place. Times spend in the garden, the visits for J’s cousins David and Caroline, Caroline’s kids, of course all the times with Simon in his garage, or day visits, fox hunting protest, the cinema in town, Christmas… Perhaps there is none better than sitting in Pauline’s conservatory the first morning with the book of towns and villages in England. It felt like I had the world at my fingertips. The world of my childhood. The world of Enid Blyton and all subsequent British literature. Cornwall and Gloucestershire, and Devon and Yorkshire, and Shropshire and Worcestershire, and on, and on, and on. I had found my heaven. I pored over that book with a beating heart. Not a map as such, but a driving guide to all the motorways taking us to all the exciting spots, as if the towns and villages were little satellite places in the sky, and we would be travelling from start to star. We also went by the Greenline bus to London during those first couple of days. J scoured the internet cafes, and I went to the National Gallery and saw all those treasures again, like the massive Une Bagnaid (Seurat), Vincent’s sunflowers, the Arnolfini marriage (Van Eyck), the list goes on. Then the bookshops, like Ulysses in Museum Street, and Cecil Williams, Gekoski, Marchpane. A tour of the Café Royale on Regent Street in search of the setting of Lawrence’s Rananim outburst on his birthday. There would be many visits to London, but the first one back in a long while holds its own special memory. We packed in so much early on. It was a great excuse for Pauline and Simon to get out as well. Sissinghurst quickly followed, then Charleston Farmhouse and Monk’s House in Rodmell in wet, wet Sussex, taking in Brighton at Jill and David Read’s place. Canterbury we found to be nice, but much preferred Elham. In just over a week I landed the teaching job of a lifetime at Maidstone Girls’ Grammar School. The agency I joined- ‘Select’- gave me a couple of weeks at St Simon Stock before I started which was a useful warmup, whereby a nun walked into my class and jaws dropped when I didn’t stand up! My first cover lesson I merely observed Year 13’s discussing Alan Partridge. I sat there thinking, ‘Wow, I am in a British classroom’, it took my breath away. Just staying in with Pauline and Simon had its frustrations- the cooking, Pauline’s moods- but I always felt grateful to be able to live an ordinary life in England for the first time- touring, shopping for groceries at Netto, cooking when we were allowed, meeting Simon’s eccentric friends and buying a 25 pound car, and playing with a ball on the stairs with those beautiful, beautiful cats. Still, I was quite homesick in those early weeks. The postman would cycle up the path. We got a lot of letters in those first weeks, news from home. Gordon and Lisa split, and phone calls with mother showed me how worried she was. One night I just started crying in our room, and it was really sudden. It only happened once, and I didn’t really understand it. Just the feeling of being overwhelmed. Yet there were so many distractions, such as the massive Bluewater shopping centre, and further London visits on the Greenline, and going to the manuscripts room at the British Library poring over Koteliansky’s letters to Lawrence- the actual letters in their big envelopes!!, and Katherine Mansfield’s actual story ‘A Suburban Fairytale.’ And another time to Primrose Hill past the zoo, and Chalcot Square and 23 Fitzroy Rd, past residences of a king and queen pair of poets. By late November I officially started the best job I have ever had. I had an orientation day first where I felt really self-conscious because I had just had a really short haircut. It was terrible. You can imagine why. Fran Mallalieu was having a farewell with 9E, who would become my favourite class ever. ‘Say something Australian!’. I later find out that Harriet Hancock has a mock Australian accent on her home phone message- something about being out in the ‘ute.’ So I am thrown into the deep end at MGGS. Thanks God they are so good. 2 X Year 13, a Year 10, a Year 9, a Year 8, a Year 7 (all English), and on top of all that, 5 one off Year 8 Drama classes. During spares I come to use the lovely room at the top of the stairs for the computers and the internet, checking The Age every day (J and I do not have our own computer). But the staff come to be so friendly and nice that in time I go up there less. There’s the group of men that I talk sport with, especially cricket when the Ashes comes on. It is the days of Glenn McGrath, Steve Waugh and Shane Warne. Martyn Lowe-Wheeler is the intellect. He once attended a lecture at Cambridge by Ted Hughes and lent me ‘Winter Pollen.’ Val Thind is the Head of English, and her trust in me went so far as to order 28 copies of ‘Looking for Alibrandi’ for my Year 10’s by email. (I made the mistake of lending it out to them, and most of them read it that night. I wonder if it is still there, sitting in the English storeroom?? Then there is the trio that I get to know best- even socially. Roy Doughty, Jon Mallalieu, and Dave Reader. One lovely lunchtime we go to the pub and drink beers and play pool. It is so civilized. They can’t believe it never happens in Australia. Only Klaus, the German, is a bit creepy, but I handle him ok. I will eventually have a lovely day seeing Neil Young with Roy (and Murray) at Finsbury Park, and see Burnley V Gillingham with Dave. The only other football game I will go to much later is Leicester V Leeds at the Foxes home ground. We are into early December now, and we know we need to move from Pauline’s. It has been fantastic, but we don’t want to overstay thigs, and we need more independence. It’s not far away. It is 83 London Road, ME 16 ODX. It is not a particularly easy time. J and I fight a lot. She feels stuck, has a lot of pain (terrible weather) and not enjoying Maidstone Hospital, the NHS in general. And despite MGGS, I feel like I am not teaching that well, a bit flat and bored, a bit depressed, and probably very, very homesick. And this place, on London Rd, is pretty crappy. I remember how small it was- our living quarters a garret with a sloping roof. There was only one section in which I could stand upright. A shared kitchen didn’t help, and a bathroom with tired spurts of lime-scale water, no TV, sloping walls. To a degree we come to get used to it, but it is always poky. One day a woman with a polecat moves in downstairs- that’s interesting- and there is a guy (Russian perhaps) who propositions J, and then there is the day I lock downstairs on my way out, and she is locked in all day. My dark mood extended into mid-December, where even on a trip to London I am all complaints. We had seen J’s friend Rob a few times, and went to the V&A (marvelling at William Morris things), and finding Regent St and Oxford St Christmassy and commercial, not picking up much in Soho and Carnaby St, and queuing up for a Thai restaurant in the wind and the cold feeling miserable. I felt completely left out during Rag Week at MGGS, sullen amidst all the frivolity. I felt like a block of ice, dislocated, achingly shy, removed like Esther Greenwood (teaching The Bell Jar), emotionally sterile and not performing as a teacher well. And there is a depressed girl in one of my Year 13 classes- Rosemary Aves- who says The Bell Jar is therapeutic. I had some lovely birthdays when we were away. This first one in 2000- my 36th- was spent with old friends of Jack’s at their beautiful house (Monkton), in Ross-on-Wye. Really generous people, made a fuss. We were in the vicinity so we went to the first of may house-associations of Lawrence- this one the Old Vicarage where Catherine Carswell once lived (the tenants unaware of this association). The night od December 21 ended at Cheltenham Town Hall to see Van Morrison for my very first time. Not the best time to see him (his largely forgettable time with Linda Gail Lewis). But it was a fun night, and he was in good form. The second concert later on in Derbyshire, he was quite flat. We also had a couple of nice Christmases with Pauline and her family. My one and only experience of foxhunting protest occurred at Elham on Boxing Day, 2000. Part of a large group holding placards and watching the brave horsemen with their little Foxhounds. I felt a bit sick after only a few hours sleep and all that rich Christmas food. And Simon drove at 170 kmh. The sign he constructed spelt out the words ‘Fox hunting’s for ‘Barrarians’. Mmmmm… Our gloves were useless and my toes were crying out in pain. I pulled my cap low over my head. The bugles went off and the merry hunters were on their way, the crowd hoping to satiate the hounds by throwing them dog biscuits. When we finally got home, after a detour taking in Dover and Folkestone, I vomited up my Christmas dinner, managing to thumb the small, hard bits through the little sink holes, and scooping up the bigger bits long, grey capsicum bits and flushing them down the toilet. In bed for a brief respite, and then up again for a Boxing Day lunch in Marden for some more rich Christmas food, including vile Yorkshire pudding. How white, how snowed-in was everything in the morning, as we took a stroll around the schoolyard and interrupted the early morning meanderings of a small red fox. Winter in Kent like winter anywhere in England takes a lot of getting used to. Especially the first winter. The wind rocking fence posts and the traffic eerily quiet. A postal van slipping and sliding along the hill at Queen’s Road. 2001 began- literally New Year’s Day- in London again. Very touristy but my mood really brightened. I wrote in my diary that night that it was our mildest day so far, and that I found the walks glorious- along Whitehall, and St James’ Park, Westminster Abbey, and a film at Leicester Square. Maybe it suddenly occurred to me that I was a very lucky man. By late January I was really enjoying teaching. 9E were and always will be, my favourite class. Our little attic had become a happy attic. (classes) MGGS events- Mack & Mabel, theatre London Haymarket- An Inspector Calls By Mid- February we were finally starting to travel a lot, not just to London. A holiday in Bath visiting the tourist spots like The Circus and Royal Crescent, and also out to Van Morrison’s Wool Hall Studios. On this trip we also went to the first D H Lawrence associated house- Chapel Farm Cottage in Berkshire (Dollie Radford’s home). JUNE 29- ABORTED DRAFT

Nursing Home

MOTHER- NURSING HOME- I saw you, as usual, last Sunday. It was later than usual for my weekly visit. You were awake in your large reclining chair in that spot next to the curtained window, next door to where father died. You looked much the same. Tired, worried, but with a smile for me, and J, and the boy. It never seems to be too much of an effort for you. You do genuinely love these visits. You often talk of being grateful because some residents never see anyone from the outside world. It was nearing lunch time, 12 o’clock. It is always 12 o’clock. That’s what happens when you return to a regimented process such as your earlier days. You give up the privilege of waking up, or eating, or sleeping whenever you want. We placed you in your wheelchair- or rather, the help did, quite perfunctorily. Of course, that is your lot now, this inability to walk. But it is not this loss of a function that troubled me all of Sunday. It was your sight, or rather, lack of it. You took your place at the usual table of four or five other people, all men. Brian is the one that is always next to you. He is kind and seems younger, or at least much more capable…alas, than you are. Sadly, the others look listless, bored, regrettably taciturn. J took the boy for a walk so I sat next to you. Because we arrived so late, it meant that I sat with you throughout your lunch. We held hands a little and chatted and then I did something that struck me as a role reversal from another time. I cut up your food and fed you. In a sense it was heartbreaking for me to do. They plunged large rounded pieces of beef on your plate topped with gravy, and medium-sized roast potatoes. For some reason you were not given the carrots and other vegetables the others received. I could see quickly that you needed your meal to be cut up. I sensed your inability to slice meat with a knife and fork. Even the potatoes were a bit too big. I thought this would do. I watched you, sadly, as you began to try and lift food with your fork to your mouth. This would not do, so you requested a spoon. Then the shock. You tried to lodge some meat and potato onto your spoon, and lifted the spoon slowly and gently to your mouth, your lips expectant. But there was nothing on the spoon. You missed, and couldn’t see to see this. You are so blind. That’s when I began feeding you. A bit of cut up beef, a sliced in half roast potato. After a while you said you had had enough. Then, finished, grateful, you began to talk to nobody in particular (or perhaps it was Brian), about me and how I am your ‘baby.’ You said it several times, laughing, and then saying sentences that were confused or garbled. They did not make much sense. Again, references to being your baby. It left me feeling hollow and so, so sad for you. To see you in this state. Blind, confused, laughing…at what? My mind flashes back to you sitting on a beach chair in the backyard at Reservoir, looking cool with a summer dress, sunglasses on, and a cocktail in your hand. You are smiling, confident and young, your hair lit up red or golden. As I walked out after that to go home, I began wondering ‘is there someone there on other meal days, cutting up your lunch and dinners, and feeding you, and making you feel comforted and secure? Or do you dread the hours, trying your best to disguise your blindness, chirping meaninglessly but merrily to hide your disabilities?’ Your inability to walk and your blindness make life so much harder for you. And I know it is going to happen to me as well. Perhaps someday S or A will write something like this about me.

The AFTERLIFE (1)

THE AFTERLIFE (1) (inspired by SUM: Forty tales from the afterlives by David Eagleman) WHEN you arrive at a black wrought iron gate after you have died and see the electronic notice: WELCOME TO THE AFTERLIFE, pretty soon you will be asked to select your afterlife option. Without thinking about it too much, you might choose ‘REPEAT’, which is in fact an opportunity to do everything all over again. The good, you think, outweighed the bad, so it seems like a pretty good option. What you soon discover, however, is that everything is in clumps. It is not linear, as you lived it. First up is birthdays. I have all of my 81 birthdays over 81 days. My fingers get sore from opening too many presents. The one that brings the biggest smile is the bike, when I was 13. A red and blue Malvern Star. Subsequent birthdays were an anti-climax present-wise. But when I get to 36 again, I get to revisit the Café Royal, in London on Regent Street. DH Lawrence’s birthday experience at the same venue was at a similar age around the mid 1920’s. He ended up vomiting everywhere, in the Domino Room. A more mundane experience is sixty accumulative weeks of continual teeth cleaning. Sometimes your mouth drips with blood. You watch your teeth slowly changing shape and becoming irregular, and stained. Hair brushing is also mundane. This only goes for 45 years and then stops. Not even a comb is needed after that. Football match after football match, eight months of it, more triumph than despair, the blue and white stripes the common denominator. After a while the sirens hurt your ears. A cumulative thirty years of sleep, sometimes restlessly. There are some classic dreams- especially numerous are the car crashes built around anxiety you often had. These are also bunched together- a bunching in amongst the bunching. Thank God when they finish and are replaced by 2000 or more erotic ones. Staring blankly at walls takes up close to a year. Your feelings of emotional anguish- that terrible adolescent break-up that caused stomach pain. Boredom, ennui, broken bones or mere sprains and head knocks. These are the moments that you suffer the most in reliving. Cutting finger and toe nails takes up 3 days. You never did do that kind of thing much. Pulling out ear wax and picking your nose takes up triple the time of this. As for shaving, 300 days, and doing dishes (shamefully) 130, all painfully boring but better than gardening- 270- and cleaning the toilet- 190. Month upon month is spent driving various cars, the majority of it in the same one or two suburbs. Several of these months waiting restlessly before a red light. Only a week on a plane, but what a jam- packed week of excitement and anticipation. Ironing, games shows, shoe laces, sunburn recovery and swimming, telephone conversations. It is weird waiting to see what clump comes next. The biggest dread is the big clumps of embarrassment, and failures at work, and terrible restaurant experiences and sore stomachs, toothaches and vomiting. These are all counter balanced, naturally, by periods of beautiful reading and watching experiences, delectable food and stimulating walks. At the end of the day, it is reliving the best moments of your substantive self: as son, bachelor, father and husband. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

JUST ANOTHER BIRTHDAY

ON ANOTHER BIRTHDAY DECEMBER 21, 2024 I MUST grow up and own that I have turned a certain number today. It is, after all, only a number. It is a state of mind. Turning ... is nothing at all. Feel overwhelmed if you like. Sure, it is quite remote from, unfamiliar to, a distant stranger of 21. 21 was a long time ago. Do you remember the party you had at home. The people you knew then that you do not know now? The mistakes you made? But it was still the same you. You quoted King Lear, if you recall. King Lear was pretty fresh then. But quoting King Lear when you were 21 shows that it is still you. Turning... is a piece of cake, and easy to own up to. No embarrassment or shame. It is a simple two syllable number that has a fine ring to it- the way that the final syllable- the ‘ty’ at the end, bounces confidently of the roof of the mouth like the sound of an old-fashioned cash register. As I write I suddenly feel that I can get used to this number and laugh off the way that I have been dreading it these past couple of days. How ridiculous. I can even start to embrace it. I am embracing it. It is a fine number and makes me feel full of wisdom. I have an advantage over so many people. Wise, experienced, knowledgeable, sharp, but not deteriorating. People older than me are deteriorating. Their minds are becoming soft like marshmallow. And those younger often haven’t got a clue. They are still figuring things out. Aha, what a great feeling! Now that I have turned … on December the 21st (this birth date has been with me for quite a while now- it is a loving, comforting number- it clings to me in a protective way- a date I have always been proud of- a source of comfort and strength, coming along once every year, and always anticipated, especially when I was 21…) Yes, now that I have suddenly turned…, (and fully embracing it like I have those other years that ended with the ching of ‘ty’) I am thinking about all the things I am grateful for the way that turning … has allowed me to be. Look how rich is the knowledge of my favourite writers. The way that I can still read perceptively- past my peak, sure- (remember the absolute youthful pleasure of reading Women in Love and To The Lighthouse when I was in my twenties?)- but still savouring good reads, absorbing new fiction and writers’ letters, my brain a little softened and weary, but still in reasonably sharp nick. I have a body of overseas knowledge behind me. Famous people’s houses, famous galleries and libraries and museums. A great painting is still a great painting. I haven’t had the actual picture in front of me for a long time, but I am certain that Sunflowers still speaks to me, as does the person who created it. I wasn’t much older than 21 when I stumbled across Bathers at Asnieres- its powerful massive sprawl on the wall- and Guernica at a different museum in a different country, but at the same remote age. I will probably see them again. I still have years left. They will impact me again, of that I am sure. Now I find myself at the age of … (proudly I might add again), I still love hot food like curries and spices and chillies and sauces. I can still taste these things like I am 21 again. Whiskey still has a nice kick. My smell is not bad. I could never really smell that well back then either. I can walk and I can run. I realise that a few more birthdays that end in ‘ty’ might put paid to that (I know people close to me that this has happened to), but right now even having 21 as a remote memory, doesn’t mean I cannot whack on those black Puma runners of mine and run around the oval several times- ten or twelve, in fact. That’s pretty good. Ok let’s not get on to seeing and hearing. Much, much deteriorated. Looks the same. Wow, certainly not 21 anymore. The lines, the skin, the hair, the hands, the neck. All sad imitations of my previous self. And the hearing… oh, don’t start. The seeing even more depressing. To be going blind… It is a terrible, terrible thing. You feel powerless, uncertain, fumbling, alienated and insecure and disadvantaged… But I am embracing this new age of mine as I wake up early on this day, right? December the 21st is a great day. The age I suddenly have forced upon me is fine. Wow, all the things I can still do. The physical stuff, and all the processing. I am going to go back to bed and sleep a bit more so I can enjoy this special day when I wake up again that little bit more, by being alert, awake, not worrying any more…

STATES OF MIND

SITTING on the bed with an ok red wne and 'the boy' dog, still in the first week of hols and feeling relaxed, and I confess to a kind of guarded happiness, life doesn't seem immediately filled with strong and subtle pressures. Of course I am lazy and unfulfilled and static in my emotions and behaviours, but at least not as restless, aggressive, unhappy, anxious at this very moment in time. Well, I am rarely of ever aggressive. But anxious too often, yes.

MEETING COLM TOIBIN ON HIS HOME TURF

I CAN’T exactly remember what year it was. I think sometime in 2001. It was cold, then. You told me sometime before- ‘Look me up when you get to Dublin- I’m the only Toibin in the phone book’- So we did- we looked you up from a phone box. You sounded a trifle uncertain on the phone- Did you remember me and our roughly planned visit? Was it terrible timing? Had you started The Master? At any rate we set off to Upper Pembroke Street We had with us a drink of some sort And maybe some cake or biscuits, to be hospitable. I can’t remember what it was like opening the gate And knocking on the door. I think I found it momentous Which it probably was- and ballsy- what did we have to offer? We sat inside at an old wooden table A mountain of books on top- I remember one of them was about Rouault. We spoke of many things and you Gave us some advice about travelling in Ireland Seemingly dismissive of your own places Enniscorthy, Tuskar Rock, Cush Gap Keating’s Hotel, Curracloe, Friary Street, Nora Webster, Eamon, Blackwater And wanting us to explore the ancient- The Aran Islands Inishmore, Inishmaan, Inisheer An authentic escape from the modern world. But we never did get there- we travelled A conservative path instead We had a lovely time at Colm Toibin’s But I look at the occasion now With a few small regrets. We have no photos commemorating our trip. I was too shy to ask if I could see his study And his fabulous books and maybe even a manuscript or two I wish we talked about his childhood stuttering And each of his books that I have devoured over the years And how it felt to write a book like ‘The Heather Blazing’. Instead the afternoon wore on too quickly And Colm took on my suggestion that we had better get along now And stood up and answered a mobile call in the shadows of another room. Now, if I ever visit Joni Mitchell Or Van Morrison or Paul McCartney Hopefully I will be much better prepared.

ISN'T IT A PITY: A LOOK AT PART 1 OF A NEW BEATLES DOCUMENTARY

ISN’T IT A PITY ‘Isn't it a pity Now, isn't it a shame How we break each other's hearts And cause each other pain How we take each other's love Without thinking anymore Forgetting to give back Isn't it a pity Some things take so long But how do I explain When not too many people Can see we're all the same And because of all their tears Their eyes can't hope to see The beauty that surrounds them Isn't it a pity Isn't it a pity Isn't is a shame How we break each other's hearts And cause each other pain How we take each other's love Without thinking anymore Forgetting to give back Isn't it a pity.’ JUST finished watching Part 1 of the new Beatles documentary, ‘Get Back’, by Peter Jackson- the hugely extended version of the 1969 film ‘Let It Be’, preparing for that album in Twickenham Studios in London. Except it’s much more than that. It has been edited with archival footage from old concerts and film excerpts and news articles that provided inspiration for new songs. A really telling piece occurs when the band is jamming- they do a lot of jamming- Chuck Berry’s ‘Rock & Roll Music’. They are currently playing it in the film with some gusto, however, you can see fractures in the band. It doesn’t quite seem right, there are small tensions everywhere and you can just feel it throughout- at any rate, for this section, Jackson has spliced in old footage of the band playing it live on stage in their heyday- flashing back and forwards between the two performances synchronized at the same time. It creates a magical yet sad effect- gone is the tightness and happiness of the first performance on stage- a lot of smiles and the sheer pleasure of performing- and the current one, Twickenham Studios, 1969, where there is more of a ragged and tired look, and Ringo in particular on drums looks bored, George Harrison going through the motions. An even more powerful moment takes place at the end of Part 1. Paul and John are rehearsing an old song from very early on in their repertoire- ‘Two Of Us’, that would appear on the album. An old song, and very basic, from the early 60’s period, and not much of a song really, more of a filler. I think the problem was that John Lennon hadn’t written very many new songs and there was the pressure to complete this new album. The camera flashes between John and Paul in the jamming of their intimate song about friendship, and it’s just like old days- a potentially heart-warming moment, trying to capture the glory days, having a lot of fun- except occasionally you get close-ups of George, looking completely left out, not a part of the ‘Two of Us’- it looks like there are tears in his eyes. Perhaps he feels unwanted, or superfluous. It seems they didn’t really value his song writing contributions, until ‘Something’, at least. Anyway, George looks fed up and discarded and irrelevant, and suddenly he announces he is leaving the band- ‘see you ‘round the clubs.’ This occurs moments before the ending of Part 1. Apparently, they meet up days later to try and talk him around (which they evidently do). But the three play on merrily for the next couple of days- John even says casually that he might bring in Eric Clapton if George doesn’t come back. He makes George sound so disposable. Ironically Eric was George’s best friend. Then we have the credits, and the poignant lyrics of ‘Isn’t It A Pity’ playing over it. It wasn’t the first time George tried to introduce the song into the band’s repertoire- it occurred way back in ’66 for Revolver. Evidently, he tried it again for ‘Let It Be’. And why not? It is a beautiful song that captures the feeling of being shunted, made to feel an outsider, dispensable, an adjunct. ‘Forgetting to give back. Isn’t It A Pity.’

The Bookshop of my Dreams

WHAT’S the opposite to a nightmare? I had one the other night. I dreamt I was filthy rich and I owned an incredible bookshop in some unknown location. My bookshop had three floors. There was a grand entrance, wonderfully lit at night in neon blue. There were posters of my favourite authors in the window. The ground level was vast, like the upper two levels, with rows of merchandise either side which consisted entirely of paper-back books and book-related mugs and calendars. Friends worked for me on this floor. Seasoned ones I have known forever who share my love for reading. This floor was all fiction, rows and rows of it, on polished floorboards with a long narrow pathway down the centre leading to a grand marble staircase for access to the next two floors. There was also a highly esteemed coffee lounge in the back corner for casual reading and shelves of current newspapers, sans Murdoch, from around the world. This was a happy, chatty floor, enticing the typical book purchaser, many of which would not be bothered climbing the next two floors. The second level was manned strictly by family. Here were hardback books of many genres, generally newish editions of many breeds, such as Thames & Hudson art books, Taschen books of various interests, travel books, new hardback fiction, new hardback poetry such as Faber & Faber, and many, many books of exclusive modern publishers with fabulous designs. The walls were mirrored and standing behind a lavish, large glass table and a cash register were my two brothers and my sister, eagerly serving the hungry hordes of contemporary hardback books of many colours. At the very back of level 2 was a roped off area for customers wishing to attend book talks and meetings with established book authors. Authors from the art world and the travel world as well as modern international writers such as Colm Toibin, Kazuo Ishiguro and Hilary Mantel. Nearby there was a posted sign in ornate black lettering: ‘Notice: the third floor by appointment only.’ Thank goodness I didn’t suddenly shift in my bed and awaken suddenly, before I found myself in my astral projection going to the top floor of my wondrous bookstore. Here I found simply me- dressed in a black formal waistcoat, a top hat and white gloves and sporting a trim beard. Here I was, standing behind a wide marble table eagerly administering to a customer who was in the midst of purchasing a five-figure book. On closer inspection, it was in fact none other than the first edition deluxe first binding autographed copy of Walt Whitman’s ‘Leaves of Grass’. Fortunately, my dreamy vision enabled me a panoramic view of the whole of the third floor and I could see that I was the sole proprietor on this level, dwarfed by an enormous mahogany bookcase filled with hardback antiquarian literature. The rest of the level was spartan, as though me and the purchasing desk, and the enormous bookcase, were its sole features. Looking into the bookcase, I could see there were rows of old books in mint condition organized into sections such as authors and poets- Shakespeare, Browning, Hopkins, Yeats, Plath for example for poets, and D H Lawrence, Hardy, Woolf, Joyce, Nabakov and Fitzgerald for example, for authors. Thus, the brilliant blue of ‘The Great Gatsby’ cover shone brightly, as did the deep, serious green of ‘Ulysses’, and the intense, romantic cover of ‘The Rainbow’. There was even a row for publishers’ works huddled together, such as the Nonesuch Press and the Black Sun Press. It was a joy to behold. The whole thing reminded me of the British Library. I could see now that, strictly by appointment, customers would come one at a time and by accessing a little electronic catalogue, request a particular volume for scrutiny. The whole thing brought such comfort to me in my dream that I woke myself up smiling, my wife enquiring about which particular carnal pleasure I had been transported to.

The New Boy

I GO walking a lot these days. It’s one of these fringe benefits of lockdown, I guess. Pounding the streets, up and down, up and down. I always take the boy with me for company. His name is Pablo. He’s one of those Cavoodle pups. A toy one. He is what they call ‘brindle.’ His colour, I mean. A lot of black, some white, and this lovely coffee colour around the edges. He loves lockdown. He gets to have us with him a lot of the day, especially with remote learning. And we love having him around. So it’s an all ‘round benefit for me, my wife, the girls, and as I said this new wonderful boy we have had for a few months. The other day we left early one morning, just the two of us. It was one of those wonderful crisp mornings where the sun is coming out, weakly spreading its rays across everything. I say weakly, and that’s true, but pretty and somehow comforting all the same. The boy and I left early as I said and there were a few birds out, but otherwise just the two of us and these lovely chirping sounds and the distant hum of cars along Bell Street. We were walking in the vicinity of Robinson Reserve and I started talking to my woolly friend. marvelling about how woolly he was getting. It had been a while since he had been trimmed because of lockdown, and now he had this impressive grey beard, a bit like a little Schnauzer. Anyway, as I said I had starting talking to him as I did out of habit, marvelling at his little grey beard, when the most amazing thing happened. He suddenly started talking back to me. ‘Well thanks, dad. Dogs don’t get a lot of compliments, you know.’ He spoke back, just like that. ‘Well’, I thought, ‘this is new. This is really something else. Of all the things to happen in lockdown, which is supposed to be depressing and sad, my little boy talks back to me!’ Naturally I was majorly taken aback. But it’s funny, when things completely out of the ordinary happen sometimes, it can be surprising how quickly we can suddenly get used to it. Pablo, my new little talking dog. ‘Well, this is a surprise. How long have you been able to talk like this?’, I asked him. ‘Let’s just say I have been watching, observing.’ And then he let out a little chuckle. A sort of doggy little chuckle. And then I found myself wanting to ask him a million questions, all at once. We were on the other side of Robinson’s Reserve now, and normally he wanted to get off the lead and chase the Jack Russell, or the Spoodle or the Labrador. But suddenly this seemed all probably beneath him. I mean, my little boy could talk. He was superior to all of these. ‘So, these other dogs you see, can they talk too?’ He looked a bit annoyed at this question. He glanced up at me with a surly expression. He was still on the lead. Somehow it seemed suddenly wrong to have him on the lead. ‘Come on, dad, of course they can talk. I don’t know about everyone speaking English, some of the smarter ones I guess. But we have a language too, you know. We don’t just say ‘bow wow wow’ in meaningless drivel. We are communicating, you know. Sometimes quite sophisticated stuff.’ ‘Really?’, I said to him. ‘Really and truly? Sophisticated? Give me an example.’ ‘Well, ok’, he said. He was just starting to warm up, I could tell. This was his big moment. Time for little Pablo to impress dad. One day, when I have some more time, I will tell you exactly what he said.

I SIT outside in our small backyard as I type. It is exactly 5:43 AM. I have been getting up around 5:00 AM for several days now. Not usually for as long as this, admittedly- about half an hour- discovering all these unexpected pleasures. Even if you do not have a particular reason for waking so early and venturing outside, in these balmy summer mornings I strongly recommend that you do. Just over half an hour ago I sat on this old grey chair, mesmerised by the sky. I thought of a scene in the novel ‘Girl With A Pearl Earring’ where Vermeer asks his model/sitter what colour she thinks the Delft sky through the window is. She offers a simplistic, untrained response, acknowledging, I think, only one particular dominant colour. Half an hour ago the sky was mostly blue. Dawn was about to burst. It was so beautiful. But I thought about it further, like Vermeer instructs, and I could also see white and yellow amidst this strangely beautiful milky blue. A little further on, this soft yellow emerged further and started to spread the blue more thinly. Dawning is the day. Suddenly streaks of cloud appeared and shapes became clearer. Then unexpectedly the dominant colour in the sky was pink. Now, at 5:53 AM it is virtually daylight, increasingly so as the minutes slip past. I feel so awake and everything appears now as a typical cool morning, everyday life, a normal working morning if you like. No longer that haunting, hypnotic blue of earlier. Earlier everything was so quiet and still. Now there are sounds of birds everywhere and every now and then some slightly discordant sound of something industrial. We have this new ‘sky rail’ train system operating in our zone. The Moody Blues released a song called ‘Dawn Is A Feeling’ in 1967, on the album that ends with ‘Night In White Satin.’ ‘Dawn is a feeling, a beautiful ceiling, The smell of grass just makes you pass into a dream. You're here today, no future fears, This day will last a thousand years. If you want it to. You look around you, things they astound you, So breathe in deep, you're not asleep open your mind. You're here today, no future fears, This day will last a thousand years, If you want it to.’ I am thinking of this ‘beautiful ceiling’, real and natural and more compelling in its own way than the famous man-made ceiling at the Vatican. How many of these beautiful, natural ceilings have I missed over the years? If this morning is anything to go by, I want to see more and more. Time has passed. It has just gone 6:00 AM. Nothing is quite as magical now. I might go back to bed. Dawn. Dawn. Dawn is a feeling. Dawn also heralds something new, like a new promise or venture. Why have I suddenly made this new discovery? Why have I started getting up so early and drinking in the elixir of the morning darkness into light? It is all down to you, our new baby of the family. Your name is Pablo. You are small, curious, full of mischievousness and life, and bringing pleasure (mostly) in your lovely abandonment to the whole family.

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.

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.

ON WISHING I COULD WRITE

 

I LOVE music. The sound of a tinkling piano and the heavy sound of a bass guitar. The wailing of David Gilmour’s lead guitar. The soprano sax of Paul Desmond and the echoing horn of Miles Davis’ trumpet. I love music but it feels a world apart, like an abstract science I could never muster.

I LOVE art. The look of an empty canvas appeals to me. An art supply shop thrills me. The detail and precision of a Vermeer or Ingres painting. The daring of a Picasso. The thick swirling paste of Vincent using olive green, cobalt blue or bright yellow. A painter’s tools. But like music, it feels a world apart. It is not tangible. I cannot touch or taste it.

WRITING is somehow different. I have so many inspiring books scattered around me at home. Beautiful modern editions in hardbacks of works by D H Lawrence and Katherine Mansfield. Large biographies, letters, collected works of Sylvia Plath, Colm Toibin first editions, Alex Miller’s fresh novels as they appear in hardback, Virginia Woolf’s diaries and letters, a multitude of Lawrence books from as early as 1913, through to the 20’s and 30’s.

It feels more tangible. I can put pen to paper and it can make sense. But I cannot make it amount to anything much. I can’t seem to write about imagined relationships, romance or mystery plots, gothic settings, even very much on personal relationships, real life observations, philosophical rants. I can put opinions down as well as vague, random memories and places I have seen. But I can’t seem to write fiction.

Writing fiction is something I would really like to do. I would like to write a story about an elderly man who is grappling with the sudden illness of his wife (Tobin), or a story about a lonely spinster who pretends her life has meaning and that she is somehow an important player on the world’s stage (Mansfield), or a woman who is deeply affected by the incidental touch of a man’s hand in the middle of the night (Lawrence), maybe a woman who has married too young and has a dalliance with a priest with far-reaching consequences (Miller), or a woman who spends much of her adult life fearing a descent into madness and depression (Plath and Woolf).

I so much wish I could write.

I wish I could write really long, meaningful sentences that dip, and soar, and take the reader on an emotional journey, and have lots of commas- and pauses- and other sections where you read really, really fast like your sentence has suddenly become filled with action; only to end obscurely…

I wish I could find interesting verbs to use in an imaginative way, like shimmer or shatter or glisten or glitter.

I wish I could conjure up a really effective simile, much better than saying ‘her face was as clean as the skin of an onion when the outer layer is carefully peeled back.’

To be able to create a great metaphor would be even better, much better than saying ‘she didn’t feel love for her mother anymore because her heart had turned to stone.’

My page sits empty. A rough sketch or draft is perhaps created, on a good day, but then it fizzes like rain that has fallen on a fiery rocket that threatened to be launched into the air.

Maybe I am waiting for a fox to appear as it did for Ted Hughes:

‘I imagine this midnight moment’s forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

 

Cold, delicately as the dark snow
A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

 

Sets neat prints into the snow

Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

 

Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.’

 

But, like Sylvia Plath, I don’t expect a miracle to occur, even in the vision of a black rook outside in a tree in the rain:

 

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain-
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then —
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); sceptical
Yet politic, ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur.
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance
Miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,

For that rare, random descent.

 

That rare, random descent awaits me. I will call on it in another life when my mind will be less crowded, where I will no longer care so much for the distractions of the news of the world. Where the view from my window will be a green valley or the green sea. And you never know, I may have some rich experiences as well that I can draw on.