Ties that bind

According to Chinese legend, the gods have tied an invisible red string on the ankles of those who are fated to meet. The 'red thread' is used by diety, Yue Lao, the must trusted 'matchmaker' [for marriages, anyway]. Although I do not follow Chinese tradition, I am drawn to this belief. To think that there is some explanation to why you meet the people you do, as you both serve a purpose to each other when you cross paths.

My experience at the Mildura Writer's Festival is one hell of an example of why I have such faith in this Chinese parable. I believe that I was connected to those who I have met and come across here in Mildura. Although I was originally on a trip to Mildura for the sole purpose of submerging myself into the work of the featured writers, I found myself benefiting even more from the students I spent 5 brilliant days with.

When we wrapped up the our last event for the festival, we huddled as a team and decided to spontaneously take a trip to the sand dunes west of Mildura. We bathed in the sunlight, each with a bottle of Chancer in our hands, reflecting on our time together as a crew. In between the laughter and chatter of our conversations, I was so engaged on the different perspectives of life these people had given me. Each person had a different story to bring to the table, whether it was in their quirks, plans or past, I realised that no one was the same.

Sometimes it is unbelievably miraculous how blessed I am to have been tied with a red string with to these other students. Even if the festival had enlightened me with so much to bring home to Melbourne, it is without a doubt that I must give my biggest thanks to the students who I spent almost every waking hour with for five days. I only hope that the next string that is tied to me is as inspiring as this bunch.

Punch drunk poetry

I'd like to declare that my goal in life is to have the same on-stage chemistry as Peter and Sharon in my eventual relationship. There are too many clichés in this world and to say that two poets who write about love, loss and sex that share on-stage chemistry is an understatement. The conversation between the two poets consisted of an hour and a half of enjoyable banter and entertaining sex jokes and innuedos. Is it odd to say that this was my idea of a perfect afternoon?

"I'd give you all the reading time you want" says Peter, cracking a joke at Sharon with the cheekiest smile on his face. The audience burst with laughter knowing exactly what he was intending. Least we forget that his wife was somewhere in the audience, tagging along with the infectious giggle encapsulating the room. The poem I had attempted to write in my last post was inspired by this session - I had never felt tension in such a beautiful manner.

Both of the poets expressed their appreciation for rejection. "They told me to write for a ladies home journal" Sharon says, as she laughs at her past experience of receiving distaste from a publishing firm.  Peter proceed with the topic stating his admiration for risk-taking and how one must take a leap of faith in order to discover their own style. Wonderfully said by a true poet, Peter carries on by stating that "if there's a crack, that's how the light comes in". 

The whole session was filled with bits and pieces of wisdom to take home with, encouraging the audience to be fearless. "We all have our disobedient streak" that both Peter and Sharon nod their heads at each other in recognising that you must be wicked to be good.

Other than literary advice, it was evident that Peter and Sharon had their fair share of genuine, authentic love. "When you love, it shows our best and our worst", watching the whole room stop in awe when Peter utters the words his heart was pumping him to say.

Later that evening, I had a chat with Sharon Olds later that night at Art Vault and how all I see in her is beauty, no matter how explicit her poetry is. And well, I got Peter Goldsworthy to put his last name on my first so you can basically say that we're married. Enough sex and love for the day? I don't think I need anymore doses.

Infat-you-ation

I present to you my latest endeavor at writing poetry. I also present to you a photo of a wine bottle that I will cherish, as it is the first bottle of wine any lecturer of mine has ever shared with me.


Infat-you-ation

It is Saturday night and I 
am in love. 
The way he utters
words
I have waited to hear, 
words
I have wanted to know,
before I knew I wanted
to hear them 

It is Saturday night and I 
am in love. 
He reveals
his scarred, wretched faultlines
his aching self, to my 
scarred, wretched faultlines
my aching self


It is Saturday night and I 
am in love. 
Your cigarette stained fingers 
touch
my cigarette stained lips. 


It is Saturday night and I 
am in love. And these roads
rivers 
paths 
days 
hours 
have led me
to you.

At the end of this poem, you will most likely ponder who is the lucky (or unlucky) lad I seem to be fixated on. 

This poem is inspired by Sharon Olds' poetry alongside Peter Goldsworthy's poetry. There is something about the dark tone and blunt expression of these two poets that I find so candid and yet mysterious all at once. This poem is my attempt at channeling the two poets simultaneously with an infusion of my own hazy bursts of images from recent experiences and a yearning for someone.

I am in love with these poets.
But I am not in love.
Neither am I a real poet.

You can pay for school...

...But you can't buy class.

 

Most kids despise going to school. To my surprise, author Alexis Wright was one of those kids. Although, it was neither algebra or the study of the anatomy that made her loathe her days in preparatory. 

"They didn't expect much from us. Aboriginal children weren't expected to do much. And so, I wasn't taught anything." So how did Alexis Wright become the brilliant woman standing before my very own eyes, without a proper education? 

"I loved understanding things", as she makes me recognise that at times, what is important is our understanding rather than our knowledge.

As she spoke about her educational experiences as a young girl, it reminded me much of my years as a Year 11 and 12 student. Whether it was my background or my behavior with my peers, my teachers constantly expected nothing of me. There were a number of incidents where I was wrongfully treated by whom I am supposed to call my superiors. Without going into detail, it was a dark time in my life where I was bombarded with harsh words from my own teachers to my face and behind my back. 

I will never forget Alexis Wright, as she proudly says "It's good I didn't learn anything from school because they weren't teaching us the right things. I learnt that by myself later on."

Those teachers who had this constant judgmental attitude towards me and my abilities turned me into an angry and fragile adolescent. It was not until I graduated that I stopped resenting myself or those who doubted me. I, instead, thank them. I thank them for criticizing me because when I recognised my worth, they cannot take credit for nurturing nor teaching me. I found myself on my own.

"You can't have someone tell you what your future will be" while glitters sparked in Alexis' eyes when she spoke about her obstacles on achieving her most truest self in front of us. Sitting at the kiddy table situated at the back of the crowd, I did not see Alexis holding a mic but instead, a trophy. That morning, I saw it for myself - she won. She put down her own Goliath. 

I felt as if I was slowly taking parts of Alexis every time I wrote her words down. She enchanted me not only with her literary work, but with her raw, genuine and best self. And she wasn't ashamed to show it. 

Getting to know the authors at a more personal level than just their work is one of the most enlightening experiences I have witnessed first hand. It has allowed me to bring the best version of my self to the table, knowing that success doesn't come easy. Alexis Wright didn't have to pay for a top-notch, Harvard-level undergraduate education. Class and prosperity was made at her own terms. 

A state of recovery

 

(above: Know Nothing by Sharon Olds, Ecstasy by Sharon Olds)

Saturday, July 18, 2015 - Every morning, I like to call my 5th alarm a form of divine intervention. My belief is that the man upstairs, watching me in my peaceful slumber, demands me to have 'ten more minutes'  if I am to survive the hours of my day ahead. Usually, when the 'ten minutes' are up, an epiphany happens. What? An epiphany every morning? Yes, an epiphany. That once again, I am running late and time, as much as we want it to, will stop for no one.

I arrived at the ADFA Building at 10:15AM, 15 minutes before the Writer-in-Residence session. I took my seat, soy latte in hand, definitely regretting the "10 minutes" I slept in.

Waiting patiently for the session to begin, I see a woman holding a book I'm sure I had seen before. The cover was red with a photo of a woman in black and white. Ah yes, another epiphany. "Life and Loves of Lena Gaunt" was none other than Tracy Farr's debut novel. I am finally awake and my latte had finally done it's job in lifting my eyelids to face reality.

With a cover to match her hair, Tracy Farr's vibrant and alluring red locks caught my attention. I had done my research on her before the festival and read the first few chapters in her novel. Just like her locks, her written words drew me in from the minute I laid my eyes on them.

"It is my darling and I play it like a lover I cannot touch."

This was one of Tracy Farr's alluring lines from her novel that had me flipping through the first chapter without hesitation. Although I only had a small taste of Tracy through her written work, her session gave me more than a satisfying spoonful.

Just like past loves are past lives, Tracy was an aspiring scientist before she had written her novel. "I respond as a scientist. I write down my observations. But it's still wonderful to take things where you want it to go", describing how her past self intersects with her creative vision.

When Tracy's session came to a finish, we were sent to the Mildura Brewery for a short break that assisted my brain in recharging for the day ahead. The other students and I sat above the main floor where the writers and a majority of the audience at Tracy's talk were seated for lunch. Above are the photos of the brewery machines that I could not help but admire, as they stood in such metallic elegance. I pulled out my freshly bought "Selected Poems by Sharon Olds" to get away from the chaos of the day.

I sat in silence, lounging away from the world with a piece of wisdom from Tracy that I will cling on to in my most tumultuous days: "I'm always recovering, everyone is constantly in a state of recovery"

Welcome to the Gentlemen's club

Friday, July 17, 2015 - I never imagined my experience at the Mildura's (exclusive) Men's Club would turn me into such a starry eyed girl. Even more so, I didn't think I would ever find myself in an exclusive Men's Club to begin with.

The room bustled with glee and giggles awaiting award-winning author, Tom Keneally. The roar of the crowd and their chatter jumped off every corner of the room. The atmosphere was quite plush, with a fire place on my left and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc on my right. The volume of the audience settled down when this dainty silhouette stepped foot on stage. With her iridescently grey hair and pearly white grin, there she was: New York local and poet Sharon Olds, carrying with her a glow that filled the room.

All the writers were a blank page to me, waiting to have that first spill of ink. Sharon Olds, being the first to make an impression, did an astounding job of writing the first chapter of my journey into the Mildura's Writers Festival.

When I was around the age of 12, I used to write poetry for my school's monthly journal. I began to develop a bad habit of self-doubt, critiquing my work to reach perfection and eventually, my love for poetry withered away with age. It was only until Sharon Olds uttered the words of her newly crafted poem that arrested both my ears and my heart: "The desire to fly back through the air, straight to him".

This poem was about a man she had to leave behind for this festival. It spoke of gravity "pulling her tears" to the earth below, expressing how it felt to be "grounded by love". I cannot fathom how such eloquence was produced whilst being 30,000 feet in the air.

Although the crowd was waiting for Tom, Sharon had found a trigger hidden beneath my well-put together exterior.  "Writers are always changing" she says, as she talks about how her writing process reworking itself every time a new piece is being made. Sharon unearthed a sense of ambition in me that I had lost long ago.

"I felt like I wasn't rejecting enough. So I made a rejection resort for all my bad poetry", telling the crowd that writing horrible poetry is only a step closer to creating a master piece.

That night, I raised my glass to Sharon Olds. I forgot to tell you that my 12-year-old self says hello, as she made her presence known, sitting in the corner, smiling and starry eyed.