I’ve toyed with the idea of heading off on a writing retreat for some time now. They’ve become increasingly popular and are held in locations all around the world, in venues ranging from the exotic and luxurious to the more artistic and quirky. Going off on an organised retreat for a week or so could, I kept thinking, prompt me to get ‘that book’ out of my head and onto paper. Almost everything I’ve read about such events indicates that the no-doubt-amazing authors/editors running the retreats possess elusive gems of information or insight that simply make it all happen. Or so say past participants…

But every time I get to the point of booking I end up backing off. Clearly I’m either not bold enough to take that leap or am, essentially, ambivalent as to whether my hopes and aspirations are likely to be to be realised. So the idea goes back on the to-think-about-it-later pile… until the next time something brings it to mind.

Coming across this great cartoon by Gary Snider yesterday  was that thing. After I’d had a chuckle at things like the procrastination patio and the first draft furnace, I started pondering on why it is that I haven’t committed to a retreat, but keep thinking about doing so.

writersretreat_garysnider
Over the years I’ve attended numerous professional development sessions, seminars, and writing/editing-related events and have often come away feeling slightly dissatisfied. I head back to work or home trying to lock onto the positives, but generally seem to end up thinking that I must have missed the point. Surely, I think, the meditation exercises and group-interaction and sticky notes and coloured pens really were useful in some way and I’m just not seeing it.  Why would all these facilitators utilise tools like this if they’re not useful? It can’t possibly just be to fill up time… can it?

Those thoughts then get overlaid with others. ‘But if you wanted a meditation workshop, that’s what you’d have signed up for…’ and ‘Really? Coloured pens? Again? What’s the point of that…?!’ As a result it generally doesn’t take long for any potentially positive aspects of these sessions to be eroded or eradicated. Would my reaction to a writing retreat be any different? And what could I plausibly achieve by attending one, whether locally or overseas?

Like many people who think about going on a writing holiday, I theorise that doing so would provide me with some time-out from my day-to-day life. It might make a space for contemplation and for reflection – something that writers all apparently need. This in turn could plausibly push my creativity buttons and, with luck, unleash a veritable flood of amazing prose. If I chose wisely enough, it might also provide me with guidance and advice from people who know the industry and who could help me to move my project along.

But sensible-me looks at this list and immediately starts to consider whether I actually would gain anything that might provide forward momentum for my writing. Do I really need or want to go on a retreat somewhere with a bunch of strangers? Would it turn out to be little more than an excuse to go on sightseeing junket, have pyjama parties and eat meals someone else has prepared? Would this make me write more – or better – or just be yet another (expensive) distraction?

Further down the track I’ve no doubt that a manuscript assessor and an editor will be essential, but sensible-me insists that the writing has to come from me – and that no-one can wave some kind of literary magic wand and make it all happen. So today she (I) came up with a bold alternative to ramp up my productivity. How about just going off somewhere on my own for a few days sometime? I could stay somewhere beautiful, evade chores and work for a week or so, have meals made for me and not have the distraction of other aspiring authors and scheduled retreat events to contend with.

Bringing my inner writer to the fore and giving her some space to get stuck into writing doesn’t depend on someone else or even on being somewhere – it’s about whether I can schedule my life in a way that allows her to come out to play, whether it’s for an hour in a coffee shop scribbling in a journal or for a week in a seaside shack or all-amenities provided resort (tempting!). This probably wouldn’t work for everyone – but since team sports aren’t really my thing, coloured pens and post-it notes drive me crazy and the idea of pyjama parties makes me shudder, sensible-me may have just come up with a cunning plan…

… and I totally have to get a copy of Gary’s poster – I think that it shows what’s inside every writer’s head!

From time to time I catch a glimpse of something or someone that triggers unexpected associations, often conjuring up odd and unusual trains of thought that stay with me from minutes to days. Sometimes this happens when I’m driving.

On the way to work I occasionally play traffic-tag with another vehicle, passing and being passed by it a number of times. Usually something makes the tag vehicle memorable. This time it was a little more unusual than average. Initially I didn’t realise that I’d somehow become part of a funeral cortege, at least not until I passed the glass-sided vehicle for the second time. Initially only part of my brain registered the unusual shape – and promptly went off to hunt through my internal database for a reference point to make sense of what it had noticed.

The hearse itself was quite tall at the back and had a lot of glass on display. The overall impression I was left with was somewhere between a Popemobile and a glass dome on wheels. The glimpse of a white coffin covered in flowers provided just enough extra visual input so that, by the time I passed the vehicle for the second time, the closest match inner-me had come up with was – of all things – Snow White.  Apparently that little part of my brain that hunts for associations and connections logged the glass bubble and floral tributes and my storage banks went straight to cross-referencing Disney movies.

snow whiteThe image of Snow White in a Popemobile-hearse, driving around Perth in search of her prince, stayed with me all day. It was quite a persistent little meme and was still lurking in the recesses when I found myself watching Billy Connolly’s Big Send Off on TV that night.  Having recently been diagnosed with both prostate cancer and Parkinson’s disease, Connolly has produced a programme that examines a wide range of issues relating to death and funerals. The topic was handled surprisingly sensitively, although with his usual trademark humour – including a duet with Eric Idle.

The thing I found oddest in the programme was a drive-through funeral parlour. The idea seems to be that, instead of having a formal viewing of the deceased in a chapel – which I find pretty odd to start with, the body can be laid out in what is effectively a shop window. People can then drive up – as to a take-away food outlet – to view the deceased from the comfort of their vehicle. There’s no need to get out of the vehicle at all – you can just sit there, contemplate the display, and then sign the guest book before driving off. Next please. A tidy, hands-clean sort of approach, I guess.

drive thru funerals1

Connolly also attended a six-day international funeral directors convention & expo in Austin (Texas). He went along to have a look at some of the products that he might end up using at some stage. Coffins of every sort, from cardboard to oak, with or without silk lining and ornate handles and optional original artwork, were on display. They provided a real eye-opener as to just how much a bereaved person can be fleeced for by less-than-scrupulous vendors.

Then there was the mushroom burial suit – a full body suit that’s embroidered with threads infused with mushroom spores. These work with in conjunction with an externally applied liquid spore compound to decompose the body within the suit. What wasn’t clear was just how long it would take for the mushrooms to do their work. I rather like the idea of the body being recycled this way, although I did wonder about what happens to the residue – and to the mushrooms – afterwards.

And then there were hearses – big, small, showy, motorbikes with sidecars and… the Snow White Popemobile! It exists! I had started to suspect that I’d halfway invented the vehicle, inner-me elaborating wildly once it had latched onto the idea. But there it was, in amongst all the other snazzy vehicles. It didn’t actually have a glass dome – (inner-me did invent that bit) – but other than that it was fairly Snow White-ish.

Ford Cardinal-Hearse Coleman-Milne

I wonder if the availability of this style of hearse indicates a shift in how society is starting to view death. Perhaps it’s just a variation on the drive-through viewing option. I’m not sure how I feel about that, having been socially conditioned to avoid public displays of – well – pretty much any sort, really. But I can see that being ‘allowed’ to grieve – to acknowledge death and grief publicly – could help people to deal with loss and to move forward with their lives. It might also enable others to manage their response to the grief that friends and acquaintances experience, without feeling awkward or inappropriate.

I’ve been told a number of stories of how people will go out of their way to avoid contact with someone who has experienced the death of a loved one, almost as though it’s contagious. Perhaps having death on display, whether in a Snow White hearse or a drive-through funeral parlour, might start to move society away from this cultural death denial. It might allow death to be more openly acknowledged as part of life. On the other hand, it might simply be yet another example of a society obsessed with portraying itself as colourfully and noisily as it can at all times.

Either way, I do rather like the idea of Snow White being driven around town, actively seeking out her prince rather than waiting for him in the woods surrounded by sad bunnies and bambies with big eyes.

 

I wandered along to a jazz concert on Sunday afternoon, along with dozens of other music lovers. it was part of a very popular free concert series that showcases West Australian musicians of various genres. In summer the concerts are conducted outdoors at sunset and people bring along picnic blankets and snacks and relax with family and friends to the strains of whatever music happens to be flavour of the week. In winter, the concerts are held mid afternoon in the  theatre (dry, warm and comfy) and drinks/snacks are available at the bar.

We were super excited to find out about these concerts when we first arrived in Perth, 20+ years ago. As new migrants with limited financial resources, we were up for just about any entertainment that wouldn’t cost anything – so many hours were spent out at the beach, down at the river and on our bikes exploring the ‘burbs.

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The free concerts were something new and we became regulars, never sure whether we’d be listening to sitar or guitar, jazz or soul, funk or reggae – but happy to be out and having adventures, getting up to dance and enjoying the relaxed ambiance inspired by happy people and good music.

Looking around this week I was surprised to see that most of the group was probably well and truly over 60, rugged up in jackets and with umbrellas to hand in case skies opened.  They were completely engaged, chatting in the queue, quaffing a glass of wine or cup of coffee before the show and or at the interval, going all out applauding and cheering the (excellent) musicians.

This set me to pondering and one question led to the next: where were the younger set(s)? Why are they not taking advantage of this opportunity? Do they no longer enjoy live music? Have they become sufficiently ‘cashed up’ to be picky as to what genre they’re prepared to listen to? Or have readily accessible electronics  made home-based entertainment easier and more inviting?

I guess as we morph from being students to adults, often with families of our own and certainly with jobs and responsibilities, our focus changes. We may start to move in different circles and, as time goes by, our interests inevitably shift. But in this process does our capacity to engage in and with life outside of our home/family/job narrow as we use it less? Do we slowly drift into patterns and routines that are comfortable and, in that process, start to view alternatives as ‘effort’ rather than ‘living’?

Either way I see it as a potentially slippery slope towards becoming old – not physically or chronologically, but mentally. To remain cognitively alert and socially relevant outside of our home/work context surely requires active engagement with the world around us. Join me in not going gently!

There might be any number of reasons that our garden wall looks the way it does. For example, the bore water may have been eroding the bricks and mortar over the years. But my guess is that the mortar used to build it (back in the mists of time) may simply have been substandard. Apparently brick mortar joints last somewhere around 30 to 40 years before they start to show wear… unless low quality mortar was used or if the joints are continually exposed to bad weather. I’m not sure how long our wall has been up, but this is Perth – and we don’t really get extreme weather here – certainly not on a continuous basis.

When large sections of the wall started to fall down – and after a goodly amount of research and consultation of the bank balance – we got someone in to give us a quote on turning a falling down wall back into a real wall. This was, the gentleman assured us, completely doable. He’d repaired worse and was confident that he could help us.  The one small caveat being that he  would need some dry weather (in June!) and half a metre of clearance on each side of the wall in order to wield his magical rendering machine. We would then be the proud owners of a tough-as-nails mock limestone wall that would stand the test of time – particularly if we didn’t let the bore water wash across it every week!

And so began a long weekend of garden rampage, ably and fulsomely assisted by friends and family. It’s always a bit of surprise to find that people will happily pitch in for no more reward than a sincere thank you and a great afternoon tea. And I’m here to tell you that we all worked for that afternoon tea, every calorie of it! We picked at least 15kg of cumquats, moved several trees (for replanting later), demolished and removed a postbox,  pruned trees and shrubs, put the mulcher to work on the debris, relocated the chickens, and emptied the garden shed so that it could be moved. There was a work list and we got through everytign on it, but it could never have been achieved without the willing arms, backs and attitudes of all the ‘garden gnomes.’ (Thanks again, guys).garden rampage_the next day1

We’re looking forward to a break in the weather so that this falling-down-monstrosity can be turned into something a great deal prettier – and the replanting can commence in earnest. The great thing about gardens is that they do grow back, eventually…

garden rampage reason1_jun14

 

 

Over the past six months or so I’ve become quite accustomed to the sights and sounds (and even the smells) associated with keeping a couple of backyard chickens. I’ve definitely grown used to the idea of fresh fresh eggs every day and feel quite the urban farmer when I present half a dozen of them to friends or family. There’s that odd little surge of happy as I hand them over, almost as though I (and not the backyard chooks) have laid them 🙂

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Despite all of this, it’s taken me a while to get my head around some aspects of chicken-wrangling, specifically actually handling them. Birds have never been my thing – I’m more of a dogs person and have always viewed birds as best admired from a distance. They flap – and have beaks – and beady little eyes.

However, since I do want these chooks to have a happy-chicken-life, I generally let them out of their run every day. In theory, this means that they’ll sally forth and forage merrily in the garden, eating bugs and slugs and fertilising as they go. But, sadly, this is not the case. It turns out that chickens are not overburdened with intellect and ‘sally forth’ is not part of their avian mindset. This means that they need some encouragement in the sallying department and, as my methods tend to be forthright, this was initially along the lines of herding them with a garden broom. Not super successful, I must confess, as it resulted in panicked chickens making a run for their hutch and huddling in a corner muttering and clucking nervously to themselves.

Plan B was no more successful, as it was really a variation of Plan A: I trapped them OUTside their hutch and herded them with the broom. They ran in all directions and clucked like, well, panicked chickens, really.

On to Plan C. It turns out that the best way to get them to go where I want them is to don a pair of gardening gloves, manoeuvre the chickens into their hutch, then grab them (gently) – one at a time – and pop them down in the appropriate garden bed. This has to be done quite quickly, otherwise there is more of the wild clucking and running around in a panicky sort of way. By the chickens, not me – although there have been moments…

I’ve now done this  twice – and do feel rather proud of myself for having conquered this key component of chicken-wrangling successfully.

So it was slightly startling to look out of my study window this afternoon and find two sets of beady little eyes checking me out. It’s a bit creepy to realise that they know where I live… and hunted me down… and then lurked their making their ‘I’ve found something tasty to eat’ cooing noises. Backyard chooks… or backyard raptors…?

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