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Today Journeys in Creative Writing is being featured by an Australian blogging network Where the Blog Are You?
It's proving a fine way for Aussie writers to support each other. The comments and emails from WTBAY are already coming in to my desktop today and it's a lot of fun.
There are many caring talented people out there in Ausland and sometimes it's a matter of being able to find them.
Thanks to Louisa for helping out.
Cheers
June
The old couple made a perfect capital ‘Y’ shape as they walked together around the corner and up the hill.
You see, they each had severe curvature of the spine, as though in sympathy with one another. Problem was their spines bent sideways, sending their heads at the top of the ‘Y’ away from their partner, by a good 45 degrees. The man bent right and the woman bent to the left.
From the hips down they walked very closely, often holding gnarled hands.
From hips up their curvatures seemed to create a distance that shouldn’t have been there.
I saw this man and woman on most mornings. They spoke constantly and with animation that I’d more often noted in youth smitten by love. Their old bodies sometimes shook with laughter, but to fully share the joke, glancing sideways and into each others eyes as they walked, would have been impossible.
I looked forward to my regular meandering, and I looked forward to spotting Mr and Mrs Y. My imagination ran riot when I saw them, building stories in my mind.
How difficult would this strange impairment be in their everyday lives?
They say people in a couple tend to grow alike over the years, but this was so unusual as to be almost ridiculous.
They were both almost as thin as sticks, testament to a life of exercise and dietary good sense.
He always wore those very short shorts made of some synthetic stuff that never wears out. The kind that men wore twenty years ago.
His shirt was always crisply ironed and I never saw him wear a hat.
On the other hand his wife demonstrated an acute awareness of the power of the Australian sun. Her skin was nowhere visible except around her eyes and mouth.
The wide brim hat was made of some sort of cotton and flapped as she walked. He pants were full length and again cotton, and a light blouse covered her arms right down to the wrists where a pair of cotton gloves took over. The style of her attire never changed.
This hill was abrupt and my breath became laboured, but Mr and Mrs Y were still drawing away from me. They were very fit, although apparently in their late seventies.
As the road steepened and the view became more broad, I glanced sideways to judge the clouds banking on the horizon to the south west. They were tall and threatening: black with even a tinge of green.
In our summer this could herald fierce thunder storms and even hail with lumps of ice that may be as large as ping pong balls. I’d fired my computer before clapping on my own hat for the walk, so I knew today’s weather would be unsettled …
But clouds in this direction tended to remain to the west and move along the ridge of mountains to plague towns further north. My walk would not be interrupted today.
Our path passed through tree lined streets and gardens where children played and puppies yapped.
I was sweating.
We passed a row of grevillea bushes alive with noisy green and red lorikeets fighting over the tastiest seeds.
These birds are arrogant little beggars who love nothing more than a lazy feed of honey and bread left out by an unwary householder. There were a couple of problems with that – the generosity tended to produce sickness in the birds, for one.
I encountered problem two myself when I began feeding a bird that visited my garden. Within a week I had thirty of the creatures swooping and careering among the native bushes.
I knew I had done the wrong thing when the local paper warned against the practice for the birds’ sake, and I withdrew my largess.
Regardless, for weeks afterwards lorikeets tapped fiercely at my kitchen window insisting on being fed!
The old couple had turned right into a quiet street and I continued on my own way.
There weren’t many people so much in love at that age I mused.
My head was busy imagining a fiery courtship and a huge wedding for them when a fat white rabbit dashed across the road followed closely by a young girl trying to recapture her pet.
The girl had long fair hair and wore a dress with a frothy wide skirt.
Alice in Wonderland …
On my walks I sometimes took a turn into a cul-de-sac that contained some of my favourite gardens.
Today there was a shock. My house of roses looked abandoned with unpruned bushes languid and choked with weeds. Gone the riot of colour and perfume.
Where was the family? There was a good six months worth of weeds in the garden now. What had happened?
I skipped to avoid a dog poo on the footpath and turned towards home.
*
Even in between walks I often thought about Mr and Mrs Y.
A friend of mine was a member of the local RSL Club where they had a good band and ballroom dancing on Friday afternoons. Lots of oldies turned up and my friend said she’d often seen Mr and Mrs Y among the crowd.
How on earth could they dance together I thought? I was used to seeing them walking with their heads wide apart.
I’d also wondered in my imagination how they got on in their more private and personal moments of physical contact (you’d know by now that curiosity and imagination are my middle names).
One afternoon I was sitting at my computer desk with pen and a fresh piece of white paper, and found myself doodling.
Mr and Mrs Y appeared before me, taking on the character of the stick figures that children draw.
My pen tripped along, producing Mr Y’s skinny legs and Mrs Y’s hat.
There they were: a perfect second last letter of the alphabet.
Then I looked again and the right hand side of my brain came into play: the side of lateral thinking and creativity.
With a flash and an ah-hah, I realised that my fears for the Ys was unfounded. Face to face – for dancing and in love making - they’d be fine!
*
Does anyone else know a couple who, through the years, have growth alike in some way? Tell me in a comment ...
©June Saville 2008. Not to be reproduced without express written permission of the author.
Where the brain whirrs ...I've often wondered how short stories and poetry would play out in the blogasphere.
Would good quality original work in creative writing survive in the intensely stimulating environment of the net?
Would readers tarry awhile when with a click they could choose to move onto other worlds?
So in June I began launching my babies onto the web in Journeys in Creative Writing and came up with interesting results.
I didn't expect a huge explosion of readers for my stories and poetry, but a lot more people are coming than I would have thought. And I have been happy that the majority do visit again - and often.
Six per cent of people have visited more than 50 times each in the past month!
Mind you most don't make their presence known with a comment. More's the pity because I love feedback. No, they mostly visit and move on just like so many shadows in the night, as is the wont of the web.
Google Analytics tells me they've been around, however, so I have to believe it.
Google won't tell me how many blogs are in my group, except to say that there have to be at least one hundred (or many thousands). I must face the fact that I'm probably in the one hundred end of the scale.
My average visit is 7.54 minutes long when it is a mere 18 seconds for all categories of measured blogs of my size. All books and literature blogs in my category attract only 32 second visits on average.
The big number is that eight per cent of my visitors stay for 30 minutes or more! Take a bow June!
The differences in behaviour between nationalities is interesting. I'm getting visitors from many countries, which is gratifying. They've come from India, Canada, Hungary, Italy, Fiji, Thailand and Malaysia, as well as the USA, UK, New Zealand and Australia.
Australians actually spend an astonishing average of 11.32 minutes on my site with 3.1 pages viewed.
The USA, where I have half as many visitors, only stay 32 seconds and look at 1.33 pages. UK people pause for 1.19 minutes for average of 1.60 pages.
I can understand that Australians would be more interested in my subject matter (being mostly Australian), but the others do keep coming back ...
Does this point towards a theory that the attention span of some cultures is waning, or perhaps that they've become trapped into doing everything at a great rate of knots?
It seems that readers enjoy my stories when they do come.
I suspect that my biggest enemy is the huge number of rubbish writers out there. People surfing the net have perhaps given up on finding decent fiction in the blogasphere.
However, I must come to the conclusion that short stories are not dead, but alive and kicking. That the blogging community is very happy to pause a while and take in some good old fiction - if it's decent quality.
Human beings are a fascination.
And there's nothing arrogant about me. I just know I can write!
Have any other web writers had some interesting experiences they'd like to share?
And please pause a little longer to read my re-write of The Emperor's New Clothes - below.
This story is a take on the old Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale The Emperor’s New Clothes.
Andersen told of an arrogant vain ruler who was swindled into thinking he’d purchased a very special suit which was invisible to anyone who was stupid or unfit to hold his position. When he wore the non-existent suit in public the frightened citizens declined to warn the ruler that he was all but naked. Only innocent children dared to declare the truth …
My original re-write dates back to 2005 and carries echoes from the past, including the spectre of a recent Australian Prime Minister and his longest-serving predecessor whom he idolised. Mentions of global capital may be interesting in today's context.
A little man walked into King’s Hall in the old Parliament House in Canberra, where his nation kept its former leaders framed, and under glass.
As usual, he halted before the impression of a wide, majestic-looking creature with stainless steel hair, black woollen eyebrows and blushing pink cheeks.
The visitor craned forward to allow the light in the stately hall to glint at an angle, just so, and his reflection became part of the artwork. Mind you, because of his height, the likeness appeared in the lower half of the glass, and even when he smiled to crisp up the image, it still looked sad.
The little man himself was unremarkable with his stiff upper lip, pea-size eyes and chaste spectacles.
Well might such a homely figure covet the charisma of a dead man.
The Prime Minister of the day (for that’s who the fellow was), visited Kings Hall most lunchtimes to buoy his flagging spirits. He was uneasy, but he couldn’t admit it. He had doubts about the road he travelled, but he was far too single minded and proud to deviate so much as a millimetre.
His was a nation of wide spaces, big cities, beaches and bush. The people came in all sizes and colours, and before the Prime Minister came to power they loved life, cared for the little bloke in trouble, and were painting a Big Picture in bright hues.
Okay, there were problems here and there, and one day the people looked over the fence to see greener grass and without too much thought, threw out the old Government. Things began to change with amazing speed.
Those of us watching shivered when the new little ruler declared: ‘I am the most powerful man in the nation! I have a driver and a long shining car. I share platforms with Heads of State throughout the world. My people love me. I know best for them, and they will trust me while I reshape their lives. Still waters and suet puddings are what they need – and that’s what they’ll get.’
Even as he spoke the Prime Minister’s eyebrow twitched uneasily, and he stumbled on the steps on the way out. But he straightened his back with resolve, and returned to his office to sign a decree which sacked a swathe of workers, mostly women. ‘Women should be in the home’ was his credo. He thought that families would understand this when they couldn’t pay their food bills, and half of the nation’s talent went to waste.
One day there came to the metropolis a delegation from the world of Global Capital. The men in suits sold the Prime Minister an Economic Philosophy: Let Global Capital make all the decisions. Become one big happy family with Big Business. Be relaxed. Be comfortable. Just sign here…
The Prime Minister read the instructions and sacked even more people and made others work part time for less money. He reduced benefits for the poor, hacked hospital budgets, decimated schools and universities. And then he went home to his wife and family, and slept soundly at night.
This land of sunshine grew dark and melancholy, and the people scowled, and scratched each other in their efforts to get to the top of the heap. They were unable to look after their children’s wellbeing, nor help them fulfil their dreams. The Prime Minister sometimes heard the howls of dismay, but squared his shoulders and pressed on.
The Minister for Health saw the sick people’s beds in hospital corridors, and the ambulances taking away the dead. The hairs on his neck rose uneasily, but he knew the Prime Minister’s new Economic Philosophy had come from all powerful Global Capital. He squared his shoulders and pressed on.
The Minister for Employment hated driving home at night because of people sleeping in the gutters. They’d lost their jobs and their homes, and had nowhere else to go. To avoid the sight, he took to staying overnight in his luxurious parliamentary office.
Under duress and in return for favours, the Minister for Technology signed more and more documents giving control of New Information Technologies to Big Business. He tossed and turned in bed at night and wondered: What will happen at the next election? Will Big Business play the game? Will they back the Government in their television programmes and editorials, and with their other communication technology? Or will they bite the hand that fed them? He worried at night, but during the day, the Minister squared his shoulders, and went to lunch with the media owners.
A red headed right wing politician came to town. To the people, she said: ‘You are angry and upset. But do you know why you are angry? It’s those others – those different looking people. They’re the problem. They’ve got your jobs, and your money is paying their pensions. It’s all their fault. Trust me. I will control them.’
And with this, some of the people felt comforted. They began walking the streets looking for anyone who looked ‘different’, and they threw stones and felt better still. Their children’s ragged clothing and empty stomachs didn’t seem to matter so much.
The Prime Minister decided he could make himself popular, and began mouthing some of the words that spilled from the red headed politician. Divide and rule was okay by him.
Not long after that the red head made a mistake and was clapped in gaol, leaving the way clear for the Prime Minister to take the spotlight again.
Then one day there was to be a Major National Commemoration March through the streets of the capital. The Prime Minister sensed that the people were growing angry, and thought a Big Parade would calm them down, especially if he was there to acknowledge the March Past. The people would forget their troubles, and the music would drown out the mumbling that was growing louder.
Ready for the Procession, the Prime Minister took his place on the steps of Parliament House and stood tall, just as he’d seen yet another Prime Minister do, and he felt very powerful. Wasn’t that old Prime Minister sacked and long gone? And wasn’t HE in control now?
Just as the bands could be heard in the distance, there came a young boy and a young girl who wore school uniforms, and perched on the steps. They waved banners proclaiming: ‘We are hungry’.
The children caught sight of the little man, stared open-mouthed and called out and waved their banners wildly, hoping to warn the politician of what they saw.
The Prime Minister chose not to look their way, and clapped his hands to his ears to drown their cries.
*
And as the band and the soldiers came to the steps they saw a small man standing there in white underpants and singlet. The soldiers and the bandsmen blinked as they recognised the nation’s Prime Minister. They beat their drums more loudly, and snapped a salute as they passed. ©June Saville 2008. Not to be reproduced without express written permission of the author.
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