Sunday, December 13, 2015

Divinely inspired

Towerland, South Africa
The title of this post is the root meaning of the word "enthusiasm". Inspired by what is. Inspired by what is alive, what I am receptive to, what I am able to process and pass through me: perhaps, a pile of effluent (which, by pure definition, is a stream flowing out of a body of water ... which isn't that bad).

However, producing effluent for all the world to see - or ignore - that's the risk you take when you create.

In the interests of embarking on this new venture entitled "acting doggedly" (ie. sticking to a path of creativity that is writing ... not singing, dancing, plucking, photographing, reading snippets of everything, talking, travelling, drinking coffee, etc etc etc), I shall take a moment to reflect on writers.

Regarding writers who have inspired me ...

A handful jumps to mind because of the internal resonance that I feel with them, and because I would be glad to enact the kind of catalysing that they have brought to life for me. They are Jean Rhys, Doris Lessing and Robyn Davidson. A few others who have come up in the past have been Janet Frame, Nadine Gordimer, Kurt Vonnegut, Tom Robbins and John Irving.

What is the commonality? What do they bring through their writing that I value?

They bring the truth of their experience. In particular, many of them are not afraid to depict the world through the prism that is an awareness of subtle sexism (or to bring up lots of the subtle unseen). I once heard a man say that he couldn't read the word of female authors because he didn't understand their world view. Perhaps he was talking about the view that is able to perceive subtle sexism.

If you're a cis male, I guess that perception may be difficult to glean. And perhaps that's a whole audience who won't want to read my work - I don't know. Maybe no one will want to read my work - I don't know. But that is getting ahead and getting grandiose. Time to go back to ground and humble myself before the greatness of writers who have gone before me, and the divinity of inspiration.

What do these writers have in common? They have an arresting combination of a "fuck off" attitude and an almost embarrassing degree of vulnerability - an honesty about their own position in the world.

For example, the main character in Doris Lessing's The Good Terrorist is a woman who wants to be mother to the anarchists, while wanting desperately to rebel against her own mother. She wants to be a feminist, but her male partner constantly takes advantage of her kind and maternal nature in a way that she cannot see. She is sucked into the self-serving needs of her immature, barely house-trained comrades and forgets herself. She is reliving her mother's story, just in a different context. She is the most practical person in the movement, and sees herself as its saviour, but has no idea of the violent actions being planned within the movement. She cannot see what others see of her. And what others see of her differs from person to person - be they the overworked, underpaid handyman who has been wrangled into the cause - the only person with income from a job (bringing up the fraught conundrum of living in a capitalist market system) and the person seemingly with least self-worth. Or be they the queer couple, the tough one of whom is the most traumatised and skittish character on site. There is complex set of paradoxes in each character.

And in the main character, there is a struggle to be within the nexus of various political and social movements that happen to be pulsing through the timeline of her young adulthood.

Similarly, Jean Rhys ...

Ah gad. This feels like a Year 11 English assignment (which would be fine, except I found English stifling).

What I'm attempting to do is just describe my tribe, my literary Canon. However, my Canon isn't just about literature. It takes in visual art and bold statements, such as the simple concept of the photographic series depicting an Aboriginal kids' ministry, by Richard Bell, to re-imagine the priorities of this continent back to humanistic and environmental values. It takes in the majestic whining of Thom Yorke's voice as his heart seems to risk bursting out of his chest, something I luckily had a chance to emulate in a Hanoi karaoke booth with a bunch of French strangers once. It takes in the dances and songs of corroboree and the elemental powers they invoke. It takes in the stories of underground theatre and their disregard for approval by Norm.

It's all kind of subversive. It's all kind of being the plaintiff without apology. It's all shouting out but in a way that isn't just noise, in a way that demands to be seen and heard (by me, at least). Why does it demand to be seen and heard? Because of what it offers the witness: healing, resolution, solace, a feeling they are not alone in their dilemmas associated with being human now.

All of these forms of inspiration are related to creativity that taps into the universal mind, the mind that is not just I-me-my; the mind that is a much larger network, of which the I-me-my is a player, but not the whole show. The whole show is the universal mind, the society, the environment, the weather, the animals, the world, the universe. If that sounds like hippy shit, whatever, I don't care. We don't breathe without the wider world. We don't see without the wider world. We can't be heard without the wider world around us. Or the world within us. All of this is dawning on me consciously, gradually, though it probably has been there since long before I was born as such.

So, we come back to enthusiasm and divine inspiration. How to get beyond potential criticisms of too broad / specific. Too self-indulgent / impersonal. Too incomprehensible / boring. How to have the patience with myself to keep coming back to this flow of words / This sometimes staccato stop-start of words.

This is just the beginning, of practice. Practice will lead to greater and greater coherence, until I am ready to say something which must be heard.

It is all within and around me. The experiences I have absorbed in this lifetime so far are enough, let alone those to come as this practice begins and continues.

Continues - that word scares me. Continues - that is the vow, the commitment I must make to myself to honour the experiences - the deep grief, the paralysing self-doubt based on the memory of past "terrible" decisions, the unbearable freedom to make decisions that will be remembered as "terrible", the affliction of being interested in everything, being like an omnidirectional microphone. I honour all of these wonderful / awful things about myself by continuing, continuing to focus, practise, focus, practise. Turning up. Wrangling with my ancient computer. Turning up. Starting and finishing a soliloquy on a random thought. Turning up. Until discipline doesn't come into it.

Saturday, December 5, 2015

What I have been learning about sovereignty

Big roo woz ere. Path to the Keyholes, Minjerriba
(reflections and reporting on a turbulent time including discussions at Clancestry 2015)

What is happening in this country goes right back to the initial invasion. If you don't know what that means, you might like to read on.

Something I heard at Clancestry last night: sovereignty can never be ceded, when sovereignty is understood as the life force of the land that is carried through people's bloodlines to country. The land's life force cannot be destroyed, no matter how much it is battered and bruised by the consumer society that has landed and developed upon it.

Settler culture - the structures, buildings, concepts, rules - are "surface". These things have been placed on the surface, but don't regard or understand the bloodlines, connections back to creation beings. The surface culture doesn't have time to find out about the unexplored forms of knowledge and understanding that have existed is this place. However, this surface culture is being challenged by urgent evidence such as climate change, rising seas, poisoned creeks, droughts.

Aboriginal people - especially Elders - are worried. Their culture, their lives are still under threat. It's an achievement to live past 60. Many Elders are mourned and missed. Aboriginal rates of incarceration have risen, even after the Black Deaths in Custody report of the 1980s. Children are being taken from their families at an alarming rate, sometimes because they're not wearing shoes or because there's barely any food in the fridge, even after the Bringing Them Home Report of the 1990s.

As a person descended from white settler bloodlines, it's difficult to know how to be in this. I'm a person who was born on this land with the invisible cloak of white privilege. But there is a deep understanding as well about being compromised by this culture: my mother's bloodline was broken by a forced adoption based on the premise that the woman was too young to respectably have a child. And so it was done in secret and the young woman never shared this secret with anyone except her parents. This trauma - and plenty of unknown traumas - have been handed down through this culture where personal sovereignty, particularly that of the woman, has been so fragile for many generations.


In 2009, I inadvertently landed a role in the Queensland department responsible for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander policy - I was kind of steered there from another job in the massive Communities department.

I was in that role when the department was implementing Alcohol Management Plans (restrictions) in remote Queensland communities, and I felt uneasy about such a random and untested "strategy". About that time, the NT intervention was going on as well, where Aboriginal men were getting the blanket branding in the media of sexual predators and land rights were again compromised. A couple of high profile people were claiming to speak for every mob across the continent. And they really weren't, and anyone who asked an indigenous person knew it.

Elders say, what was predicted at the time of those policies is happening now. An ice epidemic has been unleashed on Aboriginal communities. Band aids can work for surface scrapes, but they don't work for deep wounds and broken bones. Sometimes, if you try to heal things at the surface, the deep wound will fester and get infected, and the problem will get bigger than you could have imagined.

It all goes back to that initial invasion. It goes back to how we see ourselves as descendants of the settlers. It goes back to how we see this land.

Aboriginal people, who I've heard speaking over the past two days, feel there is still an intention - be it conscious or unconscious - to make them extinct. Right now, they feel unseen, as though they already don't exist in the eyes of this settler culture.

It's an unusual situation. As Vernon Ah Kee said, when travelling and talking about sovereignty with people around the world, the idea of not having sovereignty is unusual. Most people don't know what it feels like to not have sovereignty because they've always had it.

A moment of self-reflection: I too have rarely felt in this society, in this place, that I have real sovereignty. It's probably true to say that the times I have felt sovereignty have been times when I've been connected to nature, when I've tread gently through unspoilt lands to reach a remote lake on a sand island or a waterfall in a range of mountains. I've been alone, or with some fellow travellers who have felt similar respect and awe for the encounter. I've had barely any possessions with me at those times.

There is a dilemma. Who is my tribe? Who are my people? And if I "have" people, do any of us appreciate or understand what that means? This is where I feel the personal effect of the settler culture, the surface culture. I don't engage that well with small talk. Again, I'm not sure where I fit in. I get confused about the expectations of rights and responsibilities to the point where I enter martyrdom or enter resentment. It's difficult to find balance, a struggle to find reciprocity that satisfies everyone.


One of the most interesting points made during the discussions of the past couple of nights: when people talk about land rights, they are talking about an alien concept. The settler concept of "rights" is alien to the indigenous culture of Australia. Connection to country through bloodline just is. Sovereignty is in being.

And this brought me to hear, what was said to be the basis of Aboriginal culture: that all things are equal - humans, marsupials, fish, reptiles, rocks, waters - we are all equal, no more and no less. We need to honour all of these things in order to honour ourselves. And we need to honour ourselves in order to honour other people.

At the moment, under the settler culture, those links of honour are broken. My challenge - perhaps our challenge - is to mend them.

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

What I am learning about creativity: some practicalities

My niece and nephews in time and space.
No one is an expert in creativity. It is something that emerges when you are open to learning.

The creative genie (or whatever you want to call it) can start busting out of its bottle at any age. It doesn't care how old you are.

Creativity requires you to somehow offer it time and space.

Sometimes, it requires you to create dedicated time and space where you feel you can experiment freely.

If that seems too hard because you have kids, or you have parents, or you don't have spare cash, or your work drains all of your energy, or, or ... this may actually be an opportunity to shift your perspective and see new options you hadn't considered before. It may open up a whole new field where you can meander through questions such as, is this job right for me? Am I getting enough support from my loved ones and if not, what can I / we actually do about it? Do I really need more money to create the time and space and if I really really do (which maybe I don't), is there some clever way that I can make it, is there some opportunity I'm not seeing (which is possibly staring me in the face)?

If any or all of those questions are too hard, be patient with yourself.

Once you have created time and space, it helps to step into it with an intention. For instance, I will sit down and write; I will sit down and play a guitar; I will sit down and sketch a leaf; I will sit down and study a leaf; I will sit down and flesh out this song into something more than a couple of lines; I will do a little dance sequence to a phrase of music; I will paint; I will dream, read etc.

It also may help to set yourself a duration of time that feels really easy, eg. 10 or 20 minutes, and see if the wave of creation takes you beyond that.

Also, you can create time and space among the happenings of everyday life. Whatever is happening at any given moment can be the source of inspiration, if you choose to pay attention and grab a snippet of time and space which, if you look for it, you might just find. For instance, 20 seconds, 20 minutes. Let's see it as a nutritious snack for the hungry genie. It just requires a slight shift in perception, a way of listening for listening's sake.

Once you have begun to enter this space, finding your creativity can involve some pain or discomfort. This can arise from various things.

Breaching blocks that have been in the way can set forth some grief you've been suppressing while you've been simultaneously suppressing / neglecting your genie, keeping it locked in its bottle. That's just unblocking. That's healthy. Tears relieve stress.

Showing your genie / soul to others can make you feel exposed and open to judgement / criticism. This may be an inevitable part of the process. However, it would seem, it's a matter of just doing your thing, doing your thing, doing your thing, until you keep finding more and more what your thing is, and the criticism becomes silent to you.

Creativity can draw you to other people who also have started a conversation with their genie, who have given into the force of uncorking the bottle. At first, it can be daunting to be around such people; you may get into comparing. They may seem further along the journey of meeting their genie than you are. They may have found more time and space than you have. That's ok. As long as you're all open to learning, you're likely to find some common ground. *This, to be honest, is an area that is difficult when (like me) you have a story about being behind the 8-ball! Myths such as the "brilliance of youth" and the "degeneration of age" and "it's too late" can get people stuck forever and ever amen. Just remember the youth/age myth comes from things like the covers of gossip magazines, and get over it.

I've probably learnt more about creativity than that. But that's all I can remember right now. Thank you to Helen Franzmann for today's insights xx

Sunday, November 22, 2015


Path to Las Negras, Andalucia
Writing. This week I've been told by someone very close to me that writing is my primary form of expression, that I've been running, ducking and weaving to avoid it; shielding myself occasionally with a guitar, racing around recording melodies, giving myself over to the crushing responsibility of intensive support work, becoming sometime carer for people who for a long time cared for me. Entering old age with my parents. Watching the world around me speed up, slow down, give birth to children, leave this life behind. Counting pennies, paying debts slowly. Been studying the mind and the body and gradually undoing the belief that they are separate, though that seems a lifelong process. Been working out how to place myself at the centre of my universe, not an easy task for one who grew up watching the theatre of a massive, chaotic / controlled, Catholic family. Been sometimes remembering to reconnect all of the loose ends, a deep affinity with plant life, animal life, water life, rock life, a deep affinity we all share but sometimes lose along the way.

So how does one fit in writing? How does one fit in? Writing. How does one fit into writing?

The excuse goes, "But what would I write about?" The question probably should be, "How do I choose where to start?" Do I start with the dramatic events? The events of Brixton streets at night, where I'd sometimes make a connection from the Underground to the bus, where I'd be confronted with drug war lords, where once I even ended up counselling one such lost boy about his broken connection with his mother in Jamaica, mostly on account of his crack addiction. Where I once met a man called Andrew, who said he had just escaped Sudan via South Africa, who needed a place to sleep, who was telling me he was a political refugee, who I didn't know whether to believe because people were begging and telling you stories every day on the streets of London, and you developed a jungle eye, and you didn't really trust anybody.

Would I write about the boys I lived with temporarily soon after arriving in London, the boys who would smoke joints before going to play squash. The British one would complain to me when he was sick that all the immigrants were getting all the free healthcare and he couldn't get in to see a doctor till tomorrow! The Australian one would tell me about the untimely death of his mother, as I planted bulbs in the back garden. It was my only way of staying sane at that time; digging in the garden. I would never see those flowers grow and bloom, but I spent many hours arranging them beneath the soil to create a rainbow of colour in an otherwise dreary and neglected semi-attached block, full of booze and drugs and laziness.

Would I write about the gypsy musician who invited me to travel with him and his amigos to the caves of Granada? I was in a remote, forgotten corner of Andalucia, taking a break from heartache and confusion, disappointing other people, mammoth cities and addictions. I was reading about ancient myths and spontaneously practising yoga in the waters of the Mediterranean, learning Spanish from my camping neighbours and following my heart with almost nothing to lose. But I did not follow the gypsies to the caves because I am my mother's daughter and I fear catastrophes on the other side of the world. I returned to London and got a job.

Would I write about the day of the Underground bombs, when I met a woman from Essex who had been travelling across town to her job at the BBC? We were trying to find another way across town because Liverpool Street had just been closed  - but we didn't know why. Not even the police informing us knew why. We hoofed it to Aldgate: closed. My new friend, acquired in a busy street, began to receive text messages, began to understand that people were on trains with exploded bombs. We heard about the bomb on the red doubledecker bus. Streets were still, apart from the heaving masses on the footpaths and an occasional red doubledecker bus that would glide through. We flinched every time. We walked all the way back to my temporary accommodation on a comfortable sofa in an apartment in Bow, the heroin capital of London - picking up wine at the supermarket on the way - and we would sip wine all day as we watched the Underground bombs come to light on the TV.

Would I write about the following day, when most people didn't go to work, but I called my new boss, the chief subeditor on a magazine called Woman and Home, who would say in her most genuine cockney accent, "Why wouldn't you come to work?" So I got on the Underground with a handful of other souls and felt the quiet chill of the tunnels that day.

Would I write about the weeks and months that followed when any man of "Middle Eastern or Asian appearance" would be stopped at train stations and have their bags searched by heavily armed police?

Would I write about my invitation by the BBC friend to a Guy Fawkes fireworks party at her Essex home, and my default reaction - to decline. Too hard, too far, too tired, too ground down by 9 to 5, too shy.

Would I write about those things from long ago and far away? Or would I write about today, a conversation with a rarely seen but deeply connected friend about polarities, mental health, fear, courage, vulnerabilities, social anxiety. About letting your mind wander to the places it's scared to go, and just letting it hang out there without judgement. Would I write about the thought that crossed my mind tonight, that one form of terror is the fear of looking at oneself in complete honesty. And anyway, is that fear unfounded?

Memories of Doogie Howser MD / Carrie Bradshaw. How can I live with myself? A writer. A writer who has written stories that were not my choice to write, who has written stories I've been passionate about and privileged to write, who has avoided writing for a long, long time.