I recently set out to challenge myself, to write something other than a post for this blog, a communication strategy or a copywriting job. Set a goal, people encouraged me. Writer folk espouse that competitions can provide the necessary impetus, setting a deadline for you without compromise, a looming date whereby a piece of work must be polished, printed, proofed and posted.
I am used to crafting careful messages, sharply defining the complex, crystallising a blur of technicality into a stark transparency. Sure, I sometimes weave in a witty repartee and experience the odd flash of (dare I say) brilliance during my personal indulgence in developing prose; but generally, I have made my living by making the confusing, clear and the indifferent, meaningful.
So, when faced with the task of drawing outside the lines, dancing with the shadows of subtlety that deliberately push a reader into the dark, I was more perplexed than I expected to be. Skills I learned long ago seemed to elude me. I had put them down somewhere and could no longer locate them. What I had deemed a minor professional transition was suddenly exacerbated to overwhelming. The elephant I had planned to eat in small bites multiplied into a herd, and I began to lose my appetite.
Extracting the required story from my creative being proved similar to the intricate game we played as children called Operation, where you lay on your stomach wielding tweezers to remove tiny plastic bones from an inanimate, two-dimensional man.
My procrastination was excruciating and the blame splashed everywhere but on me. I couldn’t write in an unclean house. I was hungry, thirsty, tired, could not resist watching endless repeat episodes of Californication. I struggled to be creative at the same desk where I conjured up the corporate devil. Fed up and in a flabbergasted effort to refresh and re-boot, I took myself out and down the street to put pen to paper, the good old fashioned way.
Our strip of ‘urbia offers a plethora of options for caffeination. I select the most eclectic of places, the one that vibrates pure, haphazard, hippie randomness in order to enhance the flow of my so called artistic juices. To the right side of the front door, there is a stout blackboard and on it I read a message. Had it been delivered in a bottle, I would have sworn it had been (pre)scribed, just for me:
If you will it, it will no longer be a dream.
How encouraging. After my third latte, it is not only encouraging, but occurring. Ink and paper finally connect and there is more evidence to speak of than when man made contact with the moon. Scribbles return home to be relayed to trusty Daddy Mac. Words front up to numerous iterations and renunciations on screen. Cobbled together, it’s parchment by patchwork and along with some inherent failings, a conclusive draft comes to exist. A story strewn from beginning to end, which in itself seems to be an act of protest against nature. My own nature, that is.
Mould of a masterpiece now etched, I pro-actively seek perspective from a deliberately diminutive number of supposedly like-minded commentators. This serves as a stinging reminder that it is always better to rip the band-aid off yourself. Getting someone else to do it... it is not designed to hurt them. My small band of merry people inflicted many wounds and they used a range of weapons. Some of them technical, some credible, some subjective and some intuitive. I see a bad moon rising and I am remiss to wear my armour. Resilience, I had forgotten, is the formal wear of the artist.
(And despair is the lonely friend, who always wears black and lives in a cold stone cottage, just out of town; close enough to visit occasionally.)
My recovery is week-long until a fresh day when I wake up clean and pick up an empty basket to start cherry picking the wreckage. The story I gave birth to is never the same and I accept that perhaps it shouldn’t be. I polish my beaten resolve and try chanting a more upbeat, mantra. Opinions are like bums and everybody has one, or so I am told.
I meet the competition d-day and after I mail the yellow envelope, I am still rumbling with mild dissatisfaction at the final product but I am relieved to let it go. I decide on a coffee, so it is back to 'caffeine ecelectica' for another dose. I pass the blackboard standing guard and today the message is even more fitting and profound;
Use what talent you possess. The woods would be very silent if no birds sang except those that sang best. [Henry Van Dyke]
Well. How about that.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Freedom is everywhere
Melbourne is such an outstanding place to live for so many reasons. Coffee is the unequivocal, first and foremost reason. I am not sure why people in other states don’t know how to make it, but they just don’t. It’s like all of the baristas that were any good at distilling and frothing a decent brew have somehow found their way here.
Food, and I refer to both the standard and the variety, comes in a close second. You can find almost any type, fresh and fast, on any budget, at any time. Cook it yourself or have someone much more qualified do it for you. The choice is yours, quite literally. From spicy dumplings, to a juicy steak, hearty Italian cuisine, burritos and churros. All awaiting our visit to the inviting ambience of one of thousands of eateries, all over town.
And the list goes on; from the shopping, to parks and gardens, the galleries, the markets, and the book nooks, it’s an artisan’s vision. But one of the true highlights also has to be how, in less than just two hours, you can be outside of the city, enjoying the enchanting and peaceful paradise that is regional Victoria.
Over the weekend, we made a getaway. We packed the car with a change of clothes and a few bath items, grabbed a magazine, a book, turned off the power at all the sockets, shut the blinds and hit the open road.
In Winter, as you escape the hustle and bustle at the core of Melbourne, and crossover its outer fringes, you can feel the air around you crystalise. All of a sudden, there is space to breathe again. The clarity is stark and visceral.
The road stretches out ahead, as if to show you the way, and the land rises in mounds for a time and then falls flat and lies low, a dewy blanket spread out from the edge of the road to the edge of the earth.
A smattering of homesteads and holiday villas dot the rise at Daylesford, ranging from quaint to colourful, with the ghostly and profound Convent building at its peak, and the main street like a valley of gift shops and day spas. There is an uncompromising chill and a thin ice that coats the morning and melts away as the day delivers a divine and pure sun. Melbourne’s passion for all things edible extends well passed its bounds into its sister townships, where someone who lives down the road grows the produce and you pay good tourist dollars for a plate (or glass) of local pride.
The green is vibrant and the trees out-populate the people, random and rampant. There is a lake of still mud glass. White and spotted ducks are chased by dogs that relish in time spent off their leads. We stay with an old friend, and the welcome mat lays out long after we have shared and laughed over homemade pizza and eggs, sunny-side up. On Sunday afternoon, we take the scenic route, stopping to buy a sourdough Vienna from a baker down an alley in Trentham. Traffic hums and the road home seems somehow narrower.
As we drive back over the Bolte bridge, I catch a sweeping view of our mecca. It glows a hearth as the sun sets, light dancing off the glass windows of sky scrapers.
The weekend is an affair to remember. But my city beckons me home with a love that is as push and pull as a high school romance. Commitment coincides with wonder. The wind rushes in the front window and out the back. Freedom is really everywhere.
Food, and I refer to both the standard and the variety, comes in a close second. You can find almost any type, fresh and fast, on any budget, at any time. Cook it yourself or have someone much more qualified do it for you. The choice is yours, quite literally. From spicy dumplings, to a juicy steak, hearty Italian cuisine, burritos and churros. All awaiting our visit to the inviting ambience of one of thousands of eateries, all over town.
And the list goes on; from the shopping, to parks and gardens, the galleries, the markets, and the book nooks, it’s an artisan’s vision. But one of the true highlights also has to be how, in less than just two hours, you can be outside of the city, enjoying the enchanting and peaceful paradise that is regional Victoria.
Over the weekend, we made a getaway. We packed the car with a change of clothes and a few bath items, grabbed a magazine, a book, turned off the power at all the sockets, shut the blinds and hit the open road.
In Winter, as you escape the hustle and bustle at the core of Melbourne, and crossover its outer fringes, you can feel the air around you crystalise. All of a sudden, there is space to breathe again. The clarity is stark and visceral.
The road stretches out ahead, as if to show you the way, and the land rises in mounds for a time and then falls flat and lies low, a dewy blanket spread out from the edge of the road to the edge of the earth.
A smattering of homesteads and holiday villas dot the rise at Daylesford, ranging from quaint to colourful, with the ghostly and profound Convent building at its peak, and the main street like a valley of gift shops and day spas. There is an uncompromising chill and a thin ice that coats the morning and melts away as the day delivers a divine and pure sun. Melbourne’s passion for all things edible extends well passed its bounds into its sister townships, where someone who lives down the road grows the produce and you pay good tourist dollars for a plate (or glass) of local pride.
The green is vibrant and the trees out-populate the people, random and rampant. There is a lake of still mud glass. White and spotted ducks are chased by dogs that relish in time spent off their leads. We stay with an old friend, and the welcome mat lays out long after we have shared and laughed over homemade pizza and eggs, sunny-side up. On Sunday afternoon, we take the scenic route, stopping to buy a sourdough Vienna from a baker down an alley in Trentham. Traffic hums and the road home seems somehow narrower.
As we drive back over the Bolte bridge, I catch a sweeping view of our mecca. It glows a hearth as the sun sets, light dancing off the glass windows of sky scrapers.
The weekend is an affair to remember. But my city beckons me home with a love that is as push and pull as a high school romance. Commitment coincides with wonder. The wind rushes in the front window and out the back. Freedom is really everywhere.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)