Writing Memoir

I have signed up for a course on writing memoirs. This is something I would not have done if Jane had not recommended it. She has been on one of Dawn's courses and was impressed with the beneficial effect on her writing. Certainly Dawn Garisch is a fine writer. I would say especially of autographical works. Much of her poetry, also is superb. I found the only novel of her's that I have tried to read, too depressing and abandoned it half-way. But then I have become fussier in my reading as I have got older. I am prepared to wade through heavy unpalatable prose if I am in search of information, but when I read for entertainment, I expect to be entertained. I don't want to be harrowed, and I don't want to be bored. That is why I avoid "confessional" poetry or for that matter "confessional" prose. If the blurb talks about "brave battles against addiction" or "coming to terms with childhood abuse," I put the book back on the shelf. Not that I think that such stories should not be written, It is just that I have just heard too many of them. I am not into the baring of one's soul. I do not like to do so myself and although I can listen sympathetically to another's troubles, reading the unpleasant details of fractured lives makes me uncomfortable. With this in mind I find myself a little apprehensive about the forthcoming course. A while ago I wrote down some childhood memories for my children and grandchildren. Silke, who edited it, wanted me to be much more "personal". She didn't think my family would be interested in my father's career as a teacher, or where my mother did her shopping or what we used to grow in the garden. She wanted more drama and more emotion. These I was unable to supply. Now, although my childhood was calm and bland, I have had plenty of drama not to mention trauma in my life. I just don't particularly like writing about it. I hope not too much of the "confessional" will be expected of me.

American Writing

I have just finished a very good book. 'Olive Kitteridge' by Elizabeth Strout. The blurb on the cover describes it as a novel, but it is really a series of short pieces all set in the same small American town and all featuring the character Olive Kitteridge, sometimes as the protagonist and sometimes as a minor character in the story. The writing is very accomplished, understated, but crisp and clear. The characters, especially Olive herself, come alive. Without ever descending into sentimentality, the author lays skillfully before us the intimate details of their lives, so that we can feel their joys, their sorrows and their pain. Although, having lived in a small town most of my life, much of what the writer tells us is familiar, I was also struck by the differences. Americans may speak the same language, but their surroundings and experiences are not the same. The central characters all appeared to me to be very self-centered and introspective, but perhaps that was only because their particular attitudes and the concerns that were most important in their lives were not the same as mine would have been. The little town in Maine in which the stories are set, is not at all like a town in this country, however well the author makes us think we know it. If I were to go to a town like that in America I know I would find it strange and exotic. I would be a foreigner, not knowing what I ought to do or what would be expected of me. . In the same way, when I took an on-line course in American Modern poetry, I came up against these differences. I was often made aware of my foreignness. There was so much taken granted in the way of background knowledge and common experience. Things that would have been familiar to any American student were new and strange to me. This added immensely to the interest of the course,but also caused difficulties sometimes. I was not surprised to find after looking up the marks I had been assigned, that I had failed'Mod-Po' (as the course was called). I thoroughly enjoyed studying the poems and doing the assignments and did contemplate trying again, but on the whole decided against repeating the course. But having been given a taste of American poetry I shall now definitely be reading more of it.

Christmas 2014

Time speeds up you get older. I have been in this place for five years now. I can hardly believe it. It seems just the other day that I moved in. When I was young, five years was a long time. The four years I spent at university seemed very much longer than the five years I have been living at Evergreen. There are various theories why this should be. I have seen more than one theory featured in "Brain-pickings"(that delightful collection of writings I receive weekly by e-mail) I like theories, especially ones that it is impossible to prove. The latest one I have thought up is this.: As you get older you slow down, Everything takes you up to twice as long, from getting dressed in the morning to the weekly shopping. This means that in each day fewer tasks are completed. Looking back on the day, it is emptier and naturally seems shorter. Your memory also is not as good. So as well as having fewer incidents to remember, more of these incidents will have been forgotten. Then there is also a lot of repetition in your memories. You may have spent several holidays at the same resort and done the same things each time, you may have worked at the same job for several years, and of course, when you have retired, one day is very like another, so although day by day time may even seem to drag by, in retrospect days pass quickly because remembering them takes so little time. But I see I meant to write about Christmas. I wasn't looking forward to it, because it seemed it would be an anticlimax after such an eventful year. Most of my family are now far away and only Luke and Danielle were to have Christmas dinner with me. I was very unenthusiastic about Christmas preparations, but once I started with the cooking of ham and turkey and the wrapping of presents, I began to enjoy myself and in the end had a lovely time with my two delightful grandchildren. We were going to go to Midnight Mass, but decided in the end that we were too tired and Luke and I went to the 8.30 service instead. I am so glad we did. A number of Malawians from the off-shoot Malawian church in Vrygrond had hired a bus to bring them to All Saints and the church was quite full in spite of there having been two other Christmas services. The Christmas service was joyful, as always and it was a bonus to have the Malawian Youth choir to sing two carols for us.

The end of the year

This has been a wonderful year for me. During this year, I celebrated my eightieth birthday, published my second book of poems, traveled with my daughter Eleanor to Namibia, and also to the Eastern Cape and had all three daughters together with me for the first time in years. How many years? It could be at least twenty.

Other highlights Being invited to read poems at the McGregor Poetry Festival. Having two poems chosen for the Carapace 100 (the bumper issue) Having poems published in the Sol Plaatje anthology. My little Jack Russell(actually Luke's dog) winning the trophy for the best Toy dog at the Boland Regional trials. Being the featured Poet at Off the Wall at Observatory and at Scarborough (reading to a lovely audience of friends) Christmas and New Year will be different this year. Only Granddaughter Danielle and Grandson Luke will be in Cape Town However much satisfaction there has been in looking back on 2014, there is still a sense of anticlimax. But who knows what 2015 may hold.

McGregor Poetry Festival

This last Weekend I attended the second McGregor Poetry Festival. I loved it. The weather was good,the scenery spectacular, the events exciting, the food delicious and the company delightful. Hugh, Julia and I drove up to McGregor together I had been invited last year, but this was a first for Hugh and Julia. Graham Dukas, Kerry Hammerton and I from Finuala's Workshop as well as Finuala herself and her daughter Beatie, had been invited to read and Hugh was to run an Off-the-Wall type open-mic event. All of us, I am sure, as well as the others from Finuala's class who came to support us, thoroughly enjoyed the weekend. I felt that my presentation went down well especially on the Friday night(I read during two dinners at a guesthouse or what I suppose is called a boutique hotel) Hugh's event proved very popular.There were so many eager wanna-be poets that there was time for only one poem per person. All the poems I heard were interesting and some were very good. My only personal gripe about the festival is that there are just too many events. It was difficult to choose. I don't know which I would have eliminated. Originally I would have thought that perhaps there were too many locals taking part, but I enjoyed the local events I went to and of course these are just the ones that are be sure to be well attended. I went to two events where two poets shared the floor. Perhaps this is the answer. An hour is a long time for one person to be talking. It works very well to have two (or even more) poets sharing a slot if they have something in common or when the style of one complements that of the other. Graham and Finuala, for instance, combined well. The open mic sessions on the other hand could be longer. It is aspirant writers who attend Literary festivals after all.

Getting to McGregor

"Let's take my car, " I said. "It's more reliable." These words would come back to haunt me. My little Hyundai looks new and is in fact only two years old. In its short life it has given no trouble whatsoever. I had checked the tyres and fitted a new one and had filled up with petrol. I was quite sure that would be enough in the way of preparation. I was wrong! We set off, Hugh,Julia and I on Friday morning. The departure was slightly delayed by the loss of Hugh's wallet. He had it with him at a restaurant the night before, but that morning it was nowhere to be found. Hugh and JUlia arrived at Evergreen Muizenberg stressed and shaky from anxiety and loss of sleep. My dog-sitter, the ever-reliable Carline had already arrived so we could get going without delay. Without delay did I say? Not really. Gairo my part-time domestic worker had first to be persuaded to leave some of the clothes unironed and get into my car so she could be dropped off at Lavender Hill and this took quite a few minutes, as she was not keen on having her routine interfered with. And then, before we could leave Cape Town itself, we also had to make a detour to Green Point to leave Julia's car with her daughter Jessica. That was not all. Just as we were about to leave, there was a phone call from my grandson to ask me to pay his gardener because he wouldn't be able to get home in time to do so. So we had to make another detour, this time via Diep Rivier We drove in convoy to Luke's house and got there without mishap. Then with Julia in my car to help with directions and give moral support, we were soon cruising down the M3 towards Green Point. Somehow in concentrating on following Hugh in the car ahead, I managed more than once to get into the wrong lane. much cursing and hooting ensuing. However this caused only minor uneasiness, no serious road rage or arrests for traffic violations. After leaving the other car, Hugh took over the driving, much to our relief, and we sailed out of the CBD and onto the N1. Here we met with incredible delays. We crawled all the way to Belville. It seemed to take hours. We were convinced that there had been an accident, but the hold-up was due to nothing but minor roadworks. Perhaps it was this long slow period in low gear that exasperated the battery and made it collapse. Who knows? After that everything seemed to be going swimmingly.The engine purred, the weather was perfect and Du toit's Kloof was as stunningly beautiful as ever. And so to Worcester. there we stopped to buy a burger, which only took a few minutes. We got back to the car to find that in the interim, it had died. The battery was totally flat. There was no garage nearby, but we found a dilapidated taxi, which from its appearance, seemed to have been involved in all the recent taxi wars. The driver, together with four friends, came to our rescue with a pair of jumper leads and the car sprang to life again. By a wonderful stroke of providence, Julia had a brother in Worcester who owned a firm that sold car parts. He examined the car, got it going again and tested the battery which he pronounced healthy. "It should be charged by the time you get to McGregor," he said. Well, we did get to McGregor, but the battery was still flat. I wasn't going to let its moribund state spoil my weekend so I cadged lifts and walked throughout the weekend and after a good deal of devout prayer, we left on Sunday afternoon, determined to keep the engine running and not to stop until we reached Cape Town. And that is what we did. We reached Disa Towers, where we could find both Julia's daughter and her car. By this time the battery of my car was so flat that the headlights wouldn't come on, so we left the poor little Hyundai and went home in the other car. The AA fetched it later on and took it to the agents and now it is well again. PS. Hugh's wallet was found at the bottom of a backpack.

Writing Stories

In the last year or so I have concentrated so much on poetry and this has paid off,I suppose. I have certainly been more successful as a poet than as a short story writer. Besides having published two collections, I have been published in Carapace quite often. I didn't realise what an accomplishment that was until I read in the latest Carapace that the editorial staff receive as many as 80 to 100 poems every two months. But I was given a short story to write for my U3A group homework and this has been a lot of fun. I must do it more often. It is being without an audience or rather a readership for short stories that puts me off. My grandchildren used to read my children's stories, but are now too old for them. At one time I went every week to Paul Mason's writing group, where we did a lot of story-writing.I miss the weekly sessions with Paul and the "girls" I see that the last post on this blog was about the trip to the West Coast Park. This trip was most fruitful as far as writing was concerned. Out of it has come a poem and a short story as well as the post on the blog. Appropos of the trip, I was amazed to read in the last Rescom minutes that one of the residents who went on the trip complained that there were no flowers to be seen. It is true that we have seen more fields of daisies on a previous trips, but I can only think that the poor old thing's eyesight must be really failing. No flowers? My collection of photographs tells otherwise.