By the firelight we singalong. We’ve asked eldest to bring out his guitar and he’s become our karoke machine. He knows so many songs. But he doesn’t sing aloud with us yet.
Hubby sings the loudest, to the beat of his own drum, daughter and youngest sing louder to help him sing with their tuning.
I sing if I know the lyrics to the songs they have chosen.
We sing to the moonlit cane.
Once we even see a horde of runaway rats in the trees once the cane provides no more shelter. Perhaps they have come to hear us sing, and we need to employ eldest like a pied guitarist to take them back into the fields.
Eldest’s voice has been breaking, and he’s kept it a secret. We have no idea what it sounds like yet.
Very excited to have 250 pages of a draft book based on the blog Following the Crow Song – well on the way, it has three sections and a different secret working title. It seems to fit together well, Looking for some beta readers soon.
It’s under Mum’s bed to keep away the burglars. Mum’s companion and stand in body guard, connecting her to home is a short flat, fairly blunt blade gaining it strength from the way it’s held and thrust.
And yes we do get burglars, but I sleep through it whilst my heroic mum chases them away.
It’s the tool that opens up the bush for my Dad, the wanderer searching for his love, her Mum. Her people find him in the bush and take him into their hearts, by choice.
In the present – slash, bang and bash – it’s destroying the calm day of porters and walkers on a journey, disconnecting them forever from their desire for the Kokoda trail.
It protects, explores, opens up and threatens; its stories say, “Take care, I am shrouded in ambiguity. I am a way to farm your wilderness, lash out at those feared…
The first time I wrote this post it had more overtly personal family stories in it, yet I backed away and thought I can’t write that post yet because I am grappling with a deeper question.
Which is truer, fact or fiction?
I have responsibilities to those I am going to write of, or be inspired to write characters for.
Do you remember the first time you learnt that history might be biased in the telling, that history told from the ‘victors’ point of view will usually portray them without critique? Growing up none of us wanted to be native Americans in cow boys and Indians, because they always died. That was the story around when I was a child.
Do you remember the first time you learnt of the enforced silences of cultures, women, countries, the disadvantaged, the non-canon,caused by the lack of publication or shared words, shared spaces to bring their stories into the open?
Do you ever worry about the authentic self? Who do I write as? Me? A narrator nothing like me? A narrator a little like me? A narrator who is an amalgam of all I know and can imagine and research as well. Are my stories real? Are they imagined? Will I stay in my comfort zone? Will I push beyond that and take you the reader with me? I am not traditional. I never can be?
I set about the story of fictionalising the real to approach a deeper emotional truth, to see the signifiers of my own life and of those in my life more universally and my story genre slips between real and not real, fiction, and non fiction. It is apparent that research is going to be needed to understand this story.
Is it as a simple as fact, non-fact? What do facts tell us? What is the deeper story? What are the secret stories? Are all tellers of tales true reliable? Why do they hide things? Do they demand of us change of names, and exact locations to ‘protect the guilty’?
Are there some stories I will never tell? How much disguise will I have to put on to ‘protect the innocent?’
This is more than theory, this is the story of second generation migrants, looking for home in heritage, space and story. This is the story of those whose new identity is made up of an environment where several languages are spoken at home, and sometimes there is no translator, Who want more than the simple definition of ‘she had to go home to understand,’ What is home?
Diaspora – it’s a long time since I thought about that word.
It’s the story of not knowing if you will ever decode the mysteries of those close to you who grew up in other languages, with other cultural codes, that you struggled to understand as you were encultured in their new homeland.
What are the dangers and perils of making a connection of becoming obligated? Will you think less of me if I never go into the birth land space, and why should that be so?
I am not confused, down-trodden, silent – I am seeking for the writing light, where I can present you the stories that have made me, and yet is that really me you might wonder?
They dance culture just for one night
my daughter accepted in
where I never felt welcome
why did I never feel that
and she smiles
as they dress her in the costumes
of culture they have reinvented
when they don’t have the right materials nearby
Is this copy real
All I know is I am happy for her
that she has a taste I was not given in this way
and is the making a journey to her bubu’s homeland
and yet I ask
Why did my mother never take us to her home?
Is she taking my daughter there now in the only way she can now her parents have passed on?
What is your idea of home or your authentic writing self?
She called me Paisa, respecting my PNG heritage before I fully did.
She was a proud Pom and had perfect Alexander technique poise.
We wrote in purple pens, a purple language, long before I knew of purple prose. Everything was ‘purple’ in our best friend world. She introduced me to Prince. Years later I would ask my eldest son to play me ‘Purple Rain.’
We played croquet as her brother played guitar. She was comfortable in her own skin, a stay up all night talker with a purple passion for life and chatter.
She loved photography and her dark room, and my simple one click, one setting Kodak felt like nothing in comparison. I wished I could be an artist like her. Because of her I first began to dream of photography, a dormant dream that took many years to wake.
At school camp we belted out all the songs we knew under the moon, just teenage girls finding freedom’s voice unafraid of anyone hearing us.
My mum felt she might be a bad influence, but let me write to her anyway when she moved away.
Turned out she liked what some might call bad boys, and wrote me letters of all those she met and pashed, long before I even thought of boys much.
She was every mother’s nightmare. She wrote to me to let me know she ran away from home, a final letter with no return address. I couldn’t write back. She took a moment to say goodbye and disappeared with her boyfriend over and hills and far away.
She was every writer’s dream – the friend who does everything you know you won’t and inspires you to create characters who don’t care what anyone thinks of them.
Everyone needs a friend who makes them unafraid of the world. Who says ‘awaken and dream.’ She was my first real best friend.
She called me Paisa.
Inspired by the Who Shaped Me project for ABC Open this month’s Pearlz Dreaming blog theme will be about the people who inspire me and there are lots of them!
I have been thinking a lot about this lately. After completing a PhD at the University of Sydney six years ago I was tired. I had done this with three kids, several house moves, a year off studies to work full time, and my hubby being a student for much of it also. I had been trying to be superwoman and it had been tough. I have to say my house was rather messy during this time and we lived nowhere near extended family either. The kids went to childcare sparingly as I wanted to see as much of them as I could whilst they were growing up.
I needed a rest ! When I say a rest, I mean some time to be with family and in a way myself. Luckily my dear partner got a regular job as a teacher, and I was able to take a break from studies and paid employment. It was like taking a deep breath to think about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
We moved to the country in the midst of all this – and my time of reinvention was punctuated by being in a town with few paid opportunities for a tertiary trained teacher, and limited choices in employment. I was probably ready to do paid work around three years ago but it’s taken a while to realise what sort.
I have come to know that the paths open to me in the country lie in business, retraining to be a highschool teacher or even arts counsellor, making it as a writer/freelancer. There is one other option and that is to leave for a university town and return to the tertiary sector.
I stand at a cross roads, with the experience of having been through a cyclone, coordinating community writing projects and on the verge of doing my first solo book and photography projects.
I am pretty certain I don’t want to teach highschool or primary, although I don’t mind guest spots to come and work with youth mentoring particularly in creative things.
Sometimes people don’t understand I can’t volunteer anymore, but need to build a future for my family – and move into regular paid work and business. I may even do both. When I am older and more established or if I make it big time I can give back more. This is the prime of life to be earning and building something to retire from paid employment later. As I move away from the voluntary sphere I hope people understand that does not lessen my love for community.
How long have women struggled to have access to the freedom and independance of paid work?
Yet, the work, homelife, spiritual balance has been crucial to my well being. I don’t regret my time out to know my family and myself. In that crucial time I have not stopped contributing to my community and my family. I have been the writing stay at home mum who loves to take photographs everywhere. Whilst some laugh at me, even ask what on earth are you doing, I know privately that my command of my camera has improved and that I love it and will always take pictures now. I can’t imagine not working at the art of photography.
I have also – done three community writing projects, mentored kids at camps, given workshops, tutored, been involved in my kids schools and lives and learnt heaps about myself and others. I say this because I know many other so called stay at home mums, like myself who don’t stay at home at all. We are based at home but we actively contribute to the community and our families.
I have been both supermum and stay at home Mum and somewhere at the end of all of the being wife and mother I am June who loves to write, take photographs and make digital arts. I recognise that I am so privileged to have a chance to get to know myself and others in my six years of so called slowing down (:
I hope the world will accept me for who I am and what I can offer and I am glad to be finding my way with the help of other bloggers and through the opportuntiies writing has offered me.
The time of reinvention is here! It is both exhilirating and scary, as my children move out into the world, so does their Mum. How many other Mums and people out there are going through this journey?