And here it is. Down here in the land of too much booze, too many barbies and fuck all art or literature, it's 1/1/2016. So what was 2015 like? 

That is the question,
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them?

Now, that's something that wouldn't get through a modern proof-reader; mixed metaphor. They'd blue-pencil it and tell the editor that the writer was an inexperienced schmuck. Unfortunately, life has no proof-readers to set the prose straight, and maybe to stifle the genius or the insanity. Life just goes on, filled with events, realizations, discoveries and revelations. And the odd disappointment. 

Okay, so I graduated with my seventh tertiary qualification: Diploma in the History of Art. You know, like in Mr and Mrs Smith, when Brad Pitt tells Angelina Jolie it's legitimate. I can now never again say that I don't know anything about art, but I know what I like. I still know what I like, but I have lost all excuses. 

That was the easy part. Taking on the Honours course may just have been the crazy part. Surrounded by the best and brightest that filtered through the swamp of a baccalaureate, it's a tough struggle to stand out. Maybe continue, maybe not, but one thing is for certain; I'm closer than ever to picking up a pencil again and committing a work of art, or doodling on a pad, whichever is the closer description.

 So let me tell you about disappointment. Back in the days of Loncon, in 2014 (and if you have to look that up, you should maybe stop reading now) I savagely pursued editors, publishers, pet-minders and anyone who had any vague connection with publishing to get contact for a contract (I could probably rap something to that, but I hate rap). I sent, eventually someone, from a major publisher, replied. They liked it, but it needed a re-write. I re-wrote. They liked it more. Some months later, the reluctant, somewhat apologetic news came that there were two holdouts on the hierarchy, and I was, to put it politely, buggered like a poodle by a doberman. But this was a good person at the publisher, who put me in touch with, and recommended me to, two agents. 

Did I mention poodles and dobermans?

Yes, we love your work, but we can't see a market for this. Send us more.

And they were right. I can write better, when I get off the anti-depressants.  

Fuck it, I'll put it out on Amazon (where my YA novel, Verachena, is just waiting, waiting, to be purchased by discerning readers). Look for it soon. Hell, I need the money.

 So, I drifted through a year of promises, hope and disappointment. Towards the end, my wife retired from teaching, which is a wrench for her. Watch this space. My stepson got kicked out of his share house, and came out as a transgender (and I may have that wrong, because I'm not fully up to speed on the categoric alphabet spectrum of what goes from what to where in the QUILTBAG). Suffice to say, he's 34 years old, and that's grown up enough to make his own decisions, in my estimation. 

 So, the end of the year was a twisted little knot, fed by expectations and revelations. I'll take a rest from study to make some money teaching university students. I am lucky, even though it's been, in many ways, a tough year (I mean, I got credits, CREDITS, for the honours course; I think about laudanum overdoses if I don't get distinctions (Valium has to do)). I have a wife who loves me, and whom I love. In a twisting world, that's a centre. Stepson will do what he has to, and the best of luck to him. I think, around the place, I have a few friends, and I'm pretty sure I don't have any enemies. (sob; I even lack the significance to have enemies.) My main regret is that there won't be a new Terry Pratchett novel this year, and that I'm getting older. 

Any god who invented the aging process is not one I'll have much faith in.

It's 10.31 PM on January 1, 2016, and so far it's okay.

Oh it's time, it's time, time for decisions and indecisions and a little bit of poetry. I had promised to send this to a li'l lit'ry magazine, but they seem to have vanished off the face of the Earth, and that's sad, because they published a couple of my short stories. Such is fame. (Hah! Fame is being published in a magazine with a circulation of less than a hundred. But at least it was LIT'RY.)

Okay, a poem:

THE ASBESTOS HOUSE AT BROOKVALE.

A tree was an adventure,

Full of mulberries and sticky sap and birds,

Gnarled and twisted like a troll’s arms,

Or it was a jacaranda that could musk you away on a purple cloud

To whatever page turned in your memory that day.

 Dark, disinfectant, pines, bleeding amber,

And eucalypts that smelled of throat lollies,

With leaves to blow music out of,

Or pull gently apart, just to see the gum stretch.

Trees to tie swings to,

That dropped you down on your arse

When two of you tried to swing at once.

Backyard? No; it was the Sahara, or the Congo, or Atlantis,

With monsters and magicians in the scrubby potato patch,

Climbing the wall of the dunny, with the pea vines,

And a black dog under the Hills Hoist

Lying in the sun, chasing rabbits as big as elephants.

The rusty Austin

That sighed on its tattered tyres by the fence,

Would fill with machine guns and gangsters and detectives,

Until it was time for the Mickey Mouse Club.

The rail fence was a tightrope,

To be paraded with an old clothes-line pole,

To be leapt in the Olympics,

To defend against the hordes.

It was the Great Wall of China,

And the last frontier,

Where I found the two stuck dogs

That mum threw water on,

Before she told me to go inside.

Beyond that was the pushcart hill,

Where odd-wheeled boxes rattled

As they raced to the chequered flag,

By the ribbon factory

Where a million bright rags

Confettied the floor,

And mum cleaned them up every night.

Farther on, up the hill and away,

Was the stream where yabbies bit on old stockings

With last night’s chicken leg in them,

Instead of your sister’s.

Tadpoles worked their mystery and turned to frogs,

As, in time, did we.

In that patch of bush,

Bordered by the bitumen school

We kept the games of children,

Carving them into trees like our initials,

Like a valediction for something

Of which we were unaware.

We knew that the road at the end of our street

Led to other places

As real as the ribbon factory,

Led to a future as dark as the pines,

As tall and mysterious as the grown-ups

Who stumbled home from the pub at six  o’clock,

As bustling as the traffic that passed us by,

On the big road that went to Africa and China and Huy Brazil,

But we were young.

Nothing passes by forever,

Not cars nor time,

But the pink asbestos house still stands,

As stubborn as the hill it stands on,

As fragile as the blossom on the jacaranda,

As fixed in memory as breath.

(And the whisky is good old Johnny Red.)

Looking for Cezanne

 

I went away, I did some things, and I'm back, hopefully with a few posts I can get together. There is much happening in my life right now, and this has nothing to do with any of it. The whisky is McLelland's Speyside, cheap but sufficient.

 

LOOKING FOR CEZANNE

I can’t walk a straight course in Paris. I knew where to find Cezanne, or, at least, the Cezanne I was looking for, starting at the Metro St Germain des Pres. 

Straight up, straight out, but there was the platform to get past, on which was mounted a display of the famous writers artists and thinkers who had lived, worked and socialised in the Boulevard St Germain. It was impossible to pass by the facsimile copies of Rimbaud, Hemingway, Levi-Strauss, Kerouak, Verlain, Chateaubriand and others without at least giving a nod to them, a salute or a quick, stiff bow. Their letters and journals live a little, even after their deaths, as legacies do.

But I was looking for Cezanne.

Les Deux Magots didn’t help. Leaving the platform, up the stairs, after homage to those who had planted their arses in the coffee shop and debated the world since 1884. Perhaps, if I planted mine in the same chair as Picasso or Sartre, some DNA, some atom, some essence of a great mind, or at least the arse of a great mind, would transfer to me. 

If a journey is disjointed, it is all to the greater good; if you are lost, you can never tell what you will find. The coffee was foul, as French coffee is, but the pastis was good, and I wondered if Cezanne had ever sat here and drunk Ricard, on a visit from Provence to his wife and son in Paris. Not old, but troubled by ill-health, relationships, contemplating a return to Catholicism, savouring cloudy anise while nurturing nascent cubism. Perhaps the tiniest part of Cezanne was here.

Leaving Les Deux Magots didn’t help. Stalls lined the boulevard, gaudy with fabrics and shiny with jewels. Worse, when I escaped the bright displays, I was not on my course down the Rue des Saint-Peres, but strolling the Rue de Buci, on the way to Rue de Seine. Strolling in Paris, looking at shops, at people, chatting; I had, unknowingly, become a flaneur.

The Rue de Seine is unfair to the directed person, one who has Cezanne’s address. Galleries line the street, open to those who would inspect their treasures. Photographs, antiquities, sculptures, paintings and some dross for tourists. But Gallerie Arcturus and the other fourteen galleries in the street can weary even the most dedicated browser, and the tiny, weathered façade of Au Brin Du Zinc invited me in for a coffee and a croque monsieur. The wood was burnished, the bar dented and stained by time and trade, as were the old man and woman who served me. They were real, but the image of card players at another table was illusory, or a very persistent ghost.

The Quai Malaquais comes back a space as it passes Rue Bonaparte and becomes Quai Voltaire on the way to Pont du Carousel. Musicians, beggars, vendors and pickpockets crowd the green grass between the Quai and the Seine, but none were on the side where I walked, so distracted by the carnival across the road that I walked straight past 3, Quai Voltaire. But I turned back, and saw where my Cezanne lived.

My Cezanne is the colour he explored so brilliantly, and it was here, at 3, Quai Voltaire, that he bought at least some of those colours. Magasin Sennelier, supplying colours to artists since 1887. To walk inside is to walk into a spectrum kaleidoscope, a fractured rainbow, a field of flowers sown by a madman. It is to walk into a joyous canvas, colours so rich and fine that I’m scared to touch them.

Reds that bleed into and onto the field, greens as deep as a courtesan’s velvet gown, blues from inkiness to a tinge in milk, yellows that Van Gogh used for the sun. All held up for display, all available. Sennelier still supplies eighty pure pigments, and more than five hundred colours. What could Leonardo have done with them? Cezanne did so much with them.

I buy a small set of pastels, bright, deep colours; my very own piece of Cezanne. I’m still too scared to use them.