Any emotion, if it is sincere, is involuntary. Mark Twain.

If there is one thing I notice about blogging, as both a writer and a reader, is that sometimes we do not take ourselves out of our stories enough to get the proper perspective needed to determine whether we’re telling them properly. Not unrelated to this, in my case, is the point that I rarely write stories in the first person; I’ve been writing here for so long, in this approximation of self that the online world and my own abilities allow, that I find it hard to step ‘out of character’. I can, but it’s a test I have little time to take.

Rawer posts, banged out in anger or bafflement to an event or situation, and immediately published, while stirring and appeal to our souls to rise to action or invoke our sympathy, are not necessarily ‘good’ as far as the writing goes; and in many cases that doesn’t matter, nor should it. I certainly don’t endorse a fragile, even flinty, sensibility where we examine our emotions as if they were safely contained within a petri dish. Angry, love, grief – these are all emotions we as personal bloggers often land ourselves in this sphere writing about in the first place, wrestling with the animal, embracing it sometimes.

All of this is to say that I have come to my computer today with stories to tell and I haven’t the foggiest idea of how to do it. How can I describe the shock of learning a cousin of mine died suddenly the other day. She was younger than me, had a variety of social media accounts like most Gen Y girls, and that the sight of her last ever Instagram photo – clear blue skies over the beach at which she lived – shall haunt me forever. How are any of us to know if the photo we take, the kiss we leave on a loved one’s cheek might be our last? I cannot possibly imagine the pain her family is feeling and I send them my profoundest condolences.

The world also lost another light this week: Susan Nieber, otherwise known as whymommy, passed away after battling Inflammatory Breast Cancer for the past five years. Her crusade and advocacy for women to check themselves and look after their health resonated all over the world and she fought her fight with grace and positivity.

Cities and Lights At Night, by Riley, stars for Susan

Vincent Van Gogh was said to have said that if he ever felt in the need for something like religion, he went out and painted the stars. At such times as this, my typing is an attempt at something similar. And if our sincere emotions are involuntary, as Twain said, then perhaps I need to revise my original argument to this post. That we need to let ourselves feel our stories, at least for a little while: blog slow, blog raw, write how you want.

Stories make us unique; they’re what make us extraordinary. And human.

*Title inspired by the lyric: Yeah we all shine on, like the moon, and the stars, and the sun. John Lennon

We Who Are Left, All Shine On* is a post from: Miscellaneous Mum - Trying to find the objective correlative, everyday

Second shot, clockwise from bottom left: stepping over the threshold into his classroom, his name at his desk, Adam holding my hand on the way home to keep me from blubbering or, to put it another way, losing mah shit.

Riley is only on half days this week before moving on to full days next week. This is quite different to Keira, who was on half days for a whole month back in Prep. I picked him up yesterday and he declared his day as ‘fantastic!’

Then when I got him up this morning he complained, ‘I have to go back again?’

Afraid so, buddy.

I’m still pinching myself: yes, this is all really happening.

Riley’s First Day is a post from: Miscellaneous Mum - Trying to find the objective correlative, everyday

I feel I need to clarify that statement: ‘invest’ would suggest handing over vast sums of money (which we don’t have) for a painting or a statue that we would keep in the house and forever look over protectively, with a hand-wringing paranoia that it must not be touched or gone near. No, when I say ‘invest in art’ I suppose I mean I want a one-off of reasonably modest origins that could be hung on the wall and become part of the family with a story to tell.

While I’ve stood in front of many of the world’s most famous paintings in galleries, I can’t pretend to know a whole lot about art. My philosophy comes more from the Monty Burns School of Thought: in the episode of The Simpsons when Marge does his controversial nude portrait he surprises everyone by saying,

“I know what I hate – and I don’t hate this.”

There have been times when I’ve had an audio-tour in my ear or a program in my hand explaining the artistic qualities of a piece and I can appreciate what they’re saying, but I’m not sure I can say I then reached any kind of independent assessment of what I thought about it. This difference didn’t really occur to me until I was in university. I was walking in Bathurst one day when I came across an antique/bric-a-brac store and having nothing better to do I went inside. Walking into the first showroom on the left, in this converted cottage down near the railways, there, propped over the fireplace was this a print of this painting:

‘The Singing Butler’, Jack Vettriano

I knew nothing of the painter or the provenance of the piece (in fact, this was 1997 and the original painting was only a few years old at the time) but none of that mattered. I stood there, transfixed. Later on that week I dragged in a friend to look at it with me. Her response, while generally positive, was not as euphoric as my own and while I was a little disappointed it also demonstrated just how subjective tastes can be and that if you like something that’s okay.

Hey, if you’re in Scotland, you can treat yourself to going to go see The Singing Butler in a rare exhibition at the moment.

But getting back on topic, above all, with this living list wish, I’d like to hope I could occasionally support a local or emerging artist by buying a piece of their work.

Turns out, before Christmas, I did.

There was an exhibition at our local library and this painting spoke to me immediately. Adam rides his bike into the city every week and this reminded me of him. I looked at the price tag and it was… well… more than I usually pay for an anniversary present (which was the pretext this was going to be bought under). So I ummed and ahhhed for a while until I thought, Just do it. So I did, and as I handed over a cheque felt both very grown up and very sick. I had no idea if he’d like it either – a big consideration – and to be honest when I gave it to him with a big flourish there were several seconds of dumbfounded silence (he understood once I explained my reasons).

A friend of mine came over one day and was about to walk out the door when she stopped and looked at the wall. I hadn’t told her about the new purchase.

“That’s from the library,” she said, “from that recent exhibition.”

“Yes.”

She nodded and smiled. “It was my favourite too. I’m glad you got it.”

So am I.

I can see why people get hooked to the competitiveness of acquisition, but that won’t be us. If I’m lucky enough to do this every so often, that will make me more than happy.

Artist: Diana Jackson

Living List Tick #2 – Invest In Art is a post from: Miscellaneous Mum - Trying to find the objective correlative, everyday

This is the first recipe I’ve made that I’ve followed down to the very syllable and as such I’m not comfortable posting the method like I have for most of the others so far. Luckily, though, I’ve found it for you via a scanned Google book (which is hardly any better copyright wise, I’d argue).

Fruit Soufflé Tart (+ the pastry)

I’d never made a soufflé before and I was a little scared once I got started and actually read all the steps involved. An extra complication was I only had a 26cm flan tin (which a special trip to Safeway procured) and the recipe asks for a 23cm. But it still worked.

See?

(Not quite as nice as the picture in the book. Never mind. Oh, also, I used nectarines, but most varieties of stone fruits would do.)

This is week fifteen of the 1 recipe a week for a year ‘living list’ challenge. (15/52)

Fruit Soufflé Tart is a post from: Miscellaneous Mum - Trying to find the objective correlative, everyday

I don’t know where to start, but this is a start so it’ll have to do.

Or it could begin with my son’s wobbling lip, when I caught him balancing on a blue plastic step on top of a kitchen chair while he was hanging off a pantry shelf, trying to reach the top and tub full of jelly beans. He teetered, then his foot slipped, and I ran up and grabbed him before he fell. Placing him on the floor, the words came out, hot, righteous words like ‘safety’ and ‘not for children’ and ‘you know better‘. His lip wobbled, his cheeks dropped. Eyes wet. My mouth hurt from the sudden yelling. Then I wanted to cry too and I opened my arms and said sorry.

We hugged silently. I crumpled to my knees and he sat in my lap, his back bent over, head buried into my chest.

It’s been quite a week, hasn’t it? I said.

And school hasn’t even begun yet.

*

I feel like I dropped Monday’s news and ran, and that’s not too far from the truth. I had to go into the city to make my specialist appointment. His offices are opposite the Alfred Hospital. By chance I was able to get some free parking across the park and as I walked the little way to get back where I needed to be, I couldn’t help but marvel at the way life just… happens. The cosmos is made up of such strange configurations, I’ve given up trying to work them out. January has seen new beginnings and greater challenges all at the same time. The specialist confirmed this when he used such phrases as “we need to manage your condition”, “I’ve had patients sit in that chair for thirty years” and “I want to see you back in March and if there’s no improvement, well, we’ll talk more then”. He ripped off a script for more medication and gave me a handy plastic folder full of cross-sectioned faces.

For those of you who are curious, it appears my articular disk has slipped out of place. The articular disk is that purple slug shape in the centre picture. If it slips, then it acts as a kind of doorstop, jamming the regular motion of the jaw. I have lots of exercises and a whole LONG list of stuff not to do, which as far as I can see is really to assist the compromised muscles not over-exert themselves. Whether or not the disk moves back to where it should be is really up to God or Jesus or Justin Bieber or George Clooney – whoever’s most powerful these days – to decide. A Higher Power – or surgery. That’s next for this contestant. Maybe (hopefully not). To be determined in March, at any rate.

(One of the things I’m not supposed to be doing is “vigorous kissing”. It was such an odd phrase, part of me wonders if it’s not a euphemism.)

(OMG IT’S A FOOT PICTURE!!!)

But it’s okay. What I’ve been telling people since, is things could be a whole lot worse. And as I walked across the park, on that sunny, stormy, windy, Melbourne-throws-it-all-at-you-day, I felt happy. Nervous, yes, with everything set to change, but excited too.

We’ve also had relatives down visiting this week and the kids have been sucking up this time with greedy gusto. They’ve played hard and stayed up late and bam! School looms again.

*

I’ve been wondering how a new job will impact my blogging. I’ve been wondering if I should keep up with it.

And I will.

I can’t imagine not blogging.

I was thinking about this when I was driving home on Monday afternoon, and Metallica came on, and the words of the title of this post came out through the speakers during ‘Nothing Else Matters’.

I don’t ‘just’ say anything here. I will continue for as long as I feel like I have something worthwhile and valuable to contribute to this community. I’ve got a lot of plans for this year. It’s going to be very exciting. Hard to juggle, probably! But we’ll get there.

I hope you stick around

31st January, #janphotoaday, Me, Again

All These Words I Don’t Just Say is a post from: Miscellaneous Mum - Trying to find the objective correlative, everyday

When I was invited to be a part of the ‘Save Your Friend’s Skin’ campaign I immediately said yes. After all, my grandmother had skin cancers, as did my father. On top of that my mother, my sister and myself have all had moles removed before they potentially became issues at a later point in time. So you can see why I think this is an important message that needs to be sent out. I’ve even blogged before about when Adam and I went on a skin check ‘date‘.

Here’s some additional information that might surprise you:

1. There are two different kinds of sun rays which can cause our skin serious skin damage – UVA and UVB.
2. As much as a short walk from the train to work is enough to cause incidental sun exposure.
3. More than 47% of Australian women rate dry skin as the number one skin concern, while less than 40% use a body lotion daily.
4. One of the major causes of dry skin for Australian women is UVA damage from incidental sun exposure.
5. UVA ray strength remains much the same all year round – causing constant dryness and ageing.
6. UVA rays can cause premature ageing, wrinkling of the skin and indirectly contribute to skin cancer formation while UVB rays can cause skin to burn.
7. Lack of sun protection is dangerous – skin cancers now account for 80% of all newly diagnosed cancers.

Are You Taking Enough Care Of Your Skin? (+ Competition) is a post from: Miscellaneous Mum - Trying to find the objective correlative, everyday

I’m really happy to be able to share with you some news today: I have been appointed as Program Manager at the Emerging Writers’ Festival.

I’ve written a little more about it over at the EWF blog if you’d like to hear a little more.

2012 is off to a racing start!

Some Exciting News is a post from: Miscellaneous Mum - Trying to find the objective correlative, everyday

I was recently reading the Bourke Street Bakery cookbook and there was a recipe in it for ‘oat and barberry biscuits’. Normally I’d skip past a biscuit recipe, but this one made me stop – foremost because I wondered ‘What on earth is a barberry?’ Then I looked at the ingredients and thought, Yippee! I have all those (except the barberries, naturally). I looked in the cupboard and found some glace cherries and thought the might do as a substitute. And they did! If you’re thinking it looks like an Anzac biscuit you’d be right –  the original recipe is an adaptation of the perennial favourite.

Ingredients

165gms (1 2/3 cups) rolled oats
220g plain flour
100gm desiccated coconut
175gm brown sugar
85gm glace cherries, chopped
185gm unsalted butter
60 ml golden syrup (or honey)
1.5 tsp bicarbonate soda
60ml water

1. Preheat oven to 170 degrees.
2. Combine oats, flour, coconut and sugar in a bowl.
3. Put butter and golden syrup in a saucepan on low heat and melt the butter. Take off heat and add the cherries. Combine bicarbonate of soda and water and stir into the pan. Pour the wet mixture over the dry and stir quickly, while still foaming. Mix well.
4. Roll into even size balls in the size you desire. (The original recipe says this makes 12; I got more than that. Obviously if you do more/less you’ll need to amend the cooking time a bit.) Put on a lined baking try and flatten slightly with a spoon.
5. Bake for 15-20 minutes (keep an eye on them). Take out and cool.

Notes:

1. Riley ate these despite the presence of evil fruit in the form of cherries.
2. They were all gone within a day or so. These will be a school lunchbox feature this year.
3. The Bourke Street Bakery picture has these squished down really flat, but I kept mine in a rounder, chunkier shape.

This is week fourteen of the 1 recipe a week for a year ‘living list’ challenge. (14/52)

Cherry Oat Biscuits is a post from: Miscellaneous Mum - Trying to find the objective correlative, everyday

(No vlog this month on account of my sore mouth and our internet being drastically shaped. It would take ten weeks to upload any video to YouTube at the moment.)

1. Cat’s Cradle – Alas, unfinished. I think it’s because I loved Slaughterhouse Five so much and this is quite different in tone (even more biting and critical) and I had to adjust my expectations (whatever they were). Next time when I pick it up – and I will – I’ll be better prepared. Vonnegut does dialogue brilliantly.

2. Burning Your Boats - A collection of Carter’s short stories (or a collection of her collection of stories, as this incorporates titles such as The Bloody Chamber and Black Venus) set in chronological order, this is a great starting place for someone curious in the Carter’s work. I studied her in passing at university: we spent a week on her work once, mostly focusing on her reworking of traditional fairy tales from a stronger, feminist perspective. I think these Gothic (re)tellings are still what she’s known for best. I like her darkness and her unabashed way of turning over notions of sexuality and home and power (among others), examining their meaning and questioning their relevance. She sometimes hits a wrong note, it feels too arch or contrived, and Salman Rushdie acknowledges this in his introduction when he says, “some of her puddings… are excessively egged.” But this is only occasionally. Her fans are legion and her work has spawned a great deal of literary criticism – justifiably so.

3. There Is No Dog – I read a little and then skipped to the end. I’ve heard a lot of good things about this book and I was puzzled. Was I missing something? The premise – a teenage boy is God – is funny and has potential but there wasn’t enough on the page to sustain my interest.

4. The Popular Girl – More short stories, this time by F. Scott Fitzgerald. It’s Fitzgerald, so you expect quality and it’s there, but I didn’t finish it. I know it’s important you read his work with the time he was living in and his own personal circumstances in mind, and they inform his work, but perhaps I wasn’t in the mood for privileged people who may or may not be poised on the edge of losing all their wealth and privilege and how this makes them feel dreadfully sorry for themselves. Maybe I should stick with the novels?

5. An Incomplete Education: 3,684 things you should have learned but probably didn’t (3rd edition) – I have conflicting feelings about books like these. On the one hand I think it’s good to have a condensed and readable reference/history book to turn to instead of fleeing to Google. On the other, do they lull us into laziness? You read three pages on how World War One began and you say, “Well, that’s all I need to know about that” and you move on. It’s what most people do, of course, because their curiosity is satisfied and don’t want to know much more anyway. For me, this book is smart and funny (if the odd joke rings false) and the overview of the Spanish Civil War is the first one I’ve read where I’ve gone, “Right, that’s a little clearer now”.

What are you reading this month?

And Happy Australia Day! We shall be swimming and visiting friends for a BBQ. Perfection.

What I’m Reading – January 2012 is a post from: Miscellaneous Mum - Trying to find the objective correlative, everyday

Keira was sitting on the lounge reading Surprise!

[The more cynical of you might think this is a setup, but it's true.]

She was reading a library copy. She prefers those to our own here at home as library ones are virtually guaranteed to have pictures by other children in the back. She likes poring over these the best, appreciating the gift they’ve given, these little insights into other lives and talents.

Anyway, I thought this would be a nice chance to pick up on a debate we’ve had many times: that I do not ‘work’ because I made the choice to be a stay at home mother.

See, that’s work, I said.

She looked up and blinked. What?

You say I don’t work, but writing that was work. As was publishing it.

She closed it and did the half-shrug meaning, Okay, fine, whatever. Then she actually said, Okay, fine, whatever.

Well, okay then, I said, walking off, happy to have made my point.

But this book was done ages ago, she added.

I stopped. So?

So what have you done since?

I spluttered. I’m still writing. I’ve had other pieces come out. There are novels on the computer that are unpublished.

Just no real, proper ones like this. She rapped the cover with her knuckles.

But -

She interrupted me. - and before you say blogging, that doesn’t count either.

Blogging doesn’t count as work? 

No.

*

First of all, I know many people wouldn’t classify blogging as work. For them it’s a hobby or a bit of fun. I can’t afford to be quite as cavalier about it anymore. This conversation happened a couple of weeks ago and I’ve been thinking a lot about it since. In retrospect, I probably should’ve brought up the topic better, when I was in a less prickly kind of mood. I wasn’t trying to wheedle any sort of badge or march of honour or anything. In fact, I’m not sure what I was after. I suppose all I want for them – Riley too – is to understand that ‘working’ doesn’t automatically equate to getting up and catching a train into the city for eight-plus hours a day. I didn’t want to turn it into a Big Feminist Issue either (although I know it can be) – not at her age, at least. I could’ve talked about how goddamn hard writing can be, how anything can be if you’re squeezing it into brief pockets of time throughout the day. How a solo-authored book isn’t the only way one can get published and that it can be tough journey, fullstop, period, that’s the truth, amen.

I suppose that’s what surprised me most of all – after all, she’s been in school two years now. She’s heard from her peers about how other family units operate and, yes, I might be in a minority when I have chosen to be at home for as long as I have. But does that mean my choice was less valid? No, it’s just different. I’m used to being defensive when this topic is discussed in the media, so I always get a little thrown when I hear it coming from the other direction, the one I care about most. I expected a little more. Perhaps that was silly. Or perhaps, ultimately, to a young kid, anything that causes parental distraction might be a bit of a bruise to the ego, whether it be checking into social media, typing, scribbling phrases and ideas on paper, research (online or off). I remember when my own mother was doing her Masters and I felt second-best for a long time. I felt pride too, don’t get me wrong. It was an introduction to the complexities of adult life. It’s why my mother was patient and listened to my grumblings and explained her perspective, and why I in turn listen to Keira’s and try to explain my side to her.

It’s also why I’m trying to cut back on social media – particularly Twitter. It’s why I have a secret private list that I check into first instead of my general timeline (and that subject is a WHOLE OTHER post). It can be an astounding time-suck, when five minutes can magically turn into fifty-five minutes and you have no idea how it happened. My goals for this year are slowly solidifying. I want to write… better? No, that’s not quite good enough.

Perhaps you can help: can you finish this sentence?

I want to write ___________

*

It’s not easy. What do you want to write? Truth? Soulfully? Beautifully? Consistently? Professionally? Lyrically?

Then go. Do it.

When A Seven Year Old Gets Preachy About Blogging – And What I Learned From This is a post from: Miscellaneous Mum - Trying to find the objective correlative, everyday