She was right.

A long walk later saw the rebirth of my blog as 10% fiction.
A name that paid homage to the fact that blogging for me is the truth of my experience, told my way, subjectively, and with a growing sense that I am never far from those fiction techniques.
That though my posts are non-fiction they are in essence shaped as the micro-stories of my life.

And here are two notes on the same page written in grey lead, HB I think,

Domain names? and PROOF!
These notes refer to David who set up my very own domain, when I knew I was really ready, and was patient through all my know-nothing-about-programming-questions.
And…
Rosa who often, as a real-reader, proofs my writing (including my bio for Miscellaneous Voices, my first ever, whatthehelldoIwrite? bio…) and offers me invaluable doses of encouragement served upon platters of realism.

And as we flick through this notebook together I realise with a pang there is but one page left. Somewhere left of the middle.
But perhaps that is perfect.
For I only have one more word to write in it anyway.

With my favourite pen I write:

You.

Some of you I know. And some of you will always be faceless.
But whoever you are and however you found me, thank you for clicking on that link that brought you tumbling across oceans, down through cables and wi-fi invisibility straight into my world for a minute or two,
this past year.


Mental note- Tomorrow: Notepad shopping.

There are now seven screwed up bits of paper to my side.



Last year as we were packing a little suitcase together for the big-grade-three-camp my daughter asked me a simple question.

Will you miss me Mummy?

Of course, I answered.
Her face crumpled a little as she placed her left gumboot into the case.

It’s funny, I said as we folded the prescribed number of size-eight sweaters into neat rectangles, when you love someone and they are headed off on a grand adventure you have what they call mixed emotions.
She stood, looking up at me while wringing a pair of High School Musical Socks between her fingers.
I feel sad, I continued, that you will be away from me and yet also blissfully happy knowing that you are going to have such an amazing time.
She rolled her socks into a ball and stuffed them into a runner.
There, she said ticking off the last item on the list-of-things-you-must-bring, all done. She smiled.
Then she zipped up the case.

In front of me is another sheet of blank paper.

I can’t quite get the words out of the thicket that is my head, down past elbow, wrist and finger tip and out through the pen onto the page. I’m stuck on I’ll miss you.

I try again. She is only nine years old. She doesn’t require an elaborate message. I’m pretty sure she’d be as happy with a page of red-biro love hearts as with perfectly worded sentiments.

I hold her camera for inspiration.

My plan is to photograph the note.
I know my daughter. As soon as she shoots a few frames the first thing she will do is turn the camera around to marvel at the images she has captured.
She’ll flick past the cheesy shot of her Daddy trying to hold the leaning tower of Pisa aloft with the palm of his hand, and the three shots of Nonna and Nonno smiling over their short black espressos in a cafe on the Piazza dei Miracoli and she will reach the end of her snaps…

and find my message.

If I can actually ever figure out what I should write.



I’ve laid out all her summer clothes on my bed. I am the mixn’match travel Queen. Everything has a purpose. Anything unnecessary is ruthlessly dumped.
She looks at the outfits I have selected… we are negotiating whether to bring pink runners as well as white ones. She decides one pair is enough.
Besides, she says, that leaves more room for souvenirs.
Clever girl.
She smiles as she zips up the case.



I think it’s the amount of time that she will be away that is causing my brain to seize. Over one month. Four and a bit weeks. Nearly five. Exactly thirty three days.

The little white squares of August suddenly take on new meaning.
I shut my calendar.



I unfold my seven attempts and smooth them out in front of me.
I see the same three words written over and over.
I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you.
Three words.
Three words.
Three
words.
oh.
I stop.

Three words.

I just had the wrong three words.


I write with conviction. I love you. It’s perfect. It’s simple. And it won’t make her cry.
And she will know it is woven, richly, with all of her Mother’s mixed emotions.

I frame the shot, take the pic and throw away the written evidence.


I put the camera, with its secret embedded message into its little protective bag
and I smile.
Not a very big smile. It’s a bit wobbly round the edges.
But a smile nonetheless…

Then I,
very carefully,
zip up the case.

I was never one to patiently pick up broken fragments and glue them together again and tell myself that the mended whole was as good as new. What is broken is broken– and I’d rather remember it as it was at its best than mend it and see the broken places as long as I lived.
Margaret Mitchell

I sit beside my friend.
She asks: How many coffees do you think we’ve had together?
I laugh thinking about the ocean of espresso we’ve imbibed.
She agrees. An ocean. Maybe more.

I sit a little further away from my friend.
She groans.
I say: Only a few more weeks to go. I’m going to miss watching you waddle. She swats at my arm and rubs at the small of her back.

I’m on the phone to my friend.
I’m just a bit um busy today, do you mind?
Sure. She says. But I know why you’re um busy. It’s my shout. It’s me. I’m not taking no for an answer.

I stand near my friend.
She has her hands in a bowl of sausage meat.
Don’t forget the Worcestershire. I say.
I never forget the Worcestershire. She says.
We are a two-man production line.
Lump of meat-mix. Rolled under the palm. Laid on the pastry. Fold, fold, pinch, milk-paint, sesame-sprinkle, prick, cut, cut, cut.
You know. I say. We could buy these for cheaper than we make them.
I know. She says.
But it wouldn’t be one of our kid’s parties without us doing it.

I sit close to my friend.
I listen for a long time. I make good with the tissues.
We compare notes on Fathers.
We agree there are far more ticks in the Cons Column.

I call my friend.
C’mon. I say. It’s my shout.
And,
I’m not taking no for an answer.
I don’t need to see her face. I know she is smiling.

I sit beside my friend.
A customer walks up to our table. I can tell she has something on her mind.
Words gush from the customer’s mouth.
It’s great to see women in business. She says. I’m all for lesbians you know.
The customer nods, her face crinkles into a knowing smile. Then she walks away.
Close your mouth. My friend says. You’ll catch flies.

I sit next to my friend.
Remember the sweetheart cake you made for your boyfriend, when you were eighteen?
I’m puzzled. I don’t remember making a sweetheart cake.
You made it for Valentine’s Day. She says. Chocolate frosting.
Oh yeah. That’s right. How did you remember that?

I float beside my friend.
We watch two old chooks doing the seniors water-aerobics. We’ve nick-named them Helga and Gretchen. I don’t remember why. Maybe because of the elaborate blonde plaits they wear, even in the pool, entwined around their heads, trapped in place with a mismatched assortment of plastic clips and rubber flowers.
Do you think we’ll be doing seniors water-aerobics one day? My friend says.
Of course. I answer. But if I ever wear my hair like that you have permission to hold me under the water. For a very long time.
I swim away.

I sit beside my friend.
The date on her calendar has been circled in black. Anniversary. Not the kind you celebrate.
I don’t need to say anything. Do anything. I’m just there.

I sit next to my friend.
Her daughter is playing with mine in the shallows of the island lagoon. Their small bikini-bottoms break the surface as they duck and dive into the water. Look at me! They shout waving some treasure over their heads. A shell. A piece of seaweed. Colourless broken coral.
Is it time to head back to the ship? I ask. Five more minutes. She says.
We turn our faces to the sun.
She elbows me. Put your hat back on. She says.

I sit face-to-face with my friend.
She has called a meeting. Laid out what she wants.
I don’t have an answer that matches hers.
I say: Remember when you asked me how many coffees I thought we’d had together?
She looks away. Yes, you said an ocean.
For the first time that day we are thinking the same thing.
All that coffee now lies between us. An ocean of it.

I speak to my friend.
Got time for a drink, breakky? She shakes her head. No. Super busy.
I’ve got your favourite. Sourdough-rye-oatbread. I can toast it.
No sale.

I sit opposite my friend.
We are silent, but the air bristles with spiky words. I inhale them. Feel them scratch as I swallow them down. Digesting them.
We’re looking through the same kaleidoscope.
But she looks through one end and I look through the other.

I sit by myself.
Sipping my coffee slowly.
Today it tastes good.
But I can’t say
that it tastes great.

In the spider-web of facts, many a truth is strangled. ~Paul Eldridge

I’m standing in the reservations line of the campus library.
Behind me are two undergrads involved in a cracking-conversation.

The first one, who is wearing leggings-as-pants, is asking the second one (who is also wearing leggings-as-pants) how she is doing at Uni. The second Ms-leggings-as-pants laughs and says to the first Ms-leggings-as-pants:

Well… I’m just scraping the bottom of the barrel (oh, I think to myself, with metaphors like that I’m not surprised dearie…) but I don’t care, she continues, as long as I just pass.

The first Ms-leggings-as-pants thinks this is hysterical and laughs loudly. One of the librarians shushes her, as only a librarian can do, and I think the other one may have suppressed a snort, but I’m not sure because I get beckoned to the counter and become engrossed in flashing my ID card at a nice young lad, who toddles off to fetch my book.

The book is Sol Stein’s: Stein on writing, and as the librarian places it in my hand I catch a whiff of library air… or rather, odour.

It’s a heady mix of old paper and unwashed socks… with a bottom note of, something… hmmm what is that aroma… ? I sniff deeply… oh… yeah… it’s weed.

Paper and things-unwashed and pot… it’s a smell most particular to University Libraries. And as I maneuver my way into the slipstream of students heading to classes, I take a deep breath of fresh air and I examine the book I’ve just received.

I feel the weight of it in my hands. It’s impressively library-like.
The old, black hard-back cover is greying on the corners. There’s no title on the front, the look-at-me dust-jacket has been discarded long ago. I rest the spine in my hand and allow it to fall open to a random page.

“…Let’s be sure we understand each other… A flashback must illuminate the present story in an important way. Otherwise, why bother?…”

Cue: wavy, shimmery flashback effect from any 70’s tv show…

My little Miss has a homework assignment.

She yells from her room, Muuuuummmm I need a dictionary.
I yell back… it’s in your brother’s roooooooom.
She replies: Can yooouuuuuuu get it?
I say… Noooooooo get it yourself (and, to be fair, I may or may not have tacked on the words ‘lazeeeee-butt-cheeks’ to the end of that sentence… I’ll leave it up to you to decide.)

A minute later I hear a very muffled:
Muuuuuuuuummmmm I can’t find it.

I’m not surprised.

More often than not I’m positive yellow-crime-scene-tape over big brother’s door would not at all look out of place.

I venture in, step over a nike runner, the guts of a hard drive that he has pulled apart *juscos I wanna see what’s inside* and a box that contains semi-precious stones (otherwise known as rocks from the garden) and I have a poke around his book shelves.
But, I concur- I cannot see the dictionary with its clunky green spine anywhere.

I look at the little Miss and she looks at me.
Then she shrugs and says… don’t worry mum I’ll use the online one.

Fabbo! Problem Solved! I think as I head back to the blank monitor I’ve been staring at for the past hour.

I’m trying to write.
Trying being the operative word.

I’ve convinced myself that if I sit looking at the whiter-than-white-whiteness of the monitor for just a few more minutes the words will come… any second now… I say to myself… soon… maybe…
wait-a-tic >insertsoundofscreechingbrakeshere< “the online one”? What?

I go to Miss 9’s bedroom and there she is expertly clacking away on her laptop “looking up” words via an internet dictionary. She looks like she knows exactly what she is doing.

I say to myself, most convincingly, this proves that the internetz is quite the convenient answer to many daily problemz.

But really what I’m thinking is hang on… is convenience really the priority here?

Cue: wavy, shimmery flash-forward to current day effect from any 70’s tv show…

As I open the door to the Uni lecture room I’m debating with myself the value of online dictionaries and the love-hate relationship I have with the *check spelling* and auto-correct feature of word processors.

They are so freakin’ handy, but I’m alarmed at the rising trend of poor spelling. I’m quite convinced text-slang and spell-checkers are assisting this sad turn of events. However, I remind myself philosophically, language changes over time, ‘tis verily the nature of thine world and the natural process of social evolution… and as I’m pondering the thought of whether there is merit in deleting the question mark from the pages of punctuation books forever, I realise that my fellow post-grads are having a lively discussion of their own.

It’s that old chestnut: online learning vs. on campus learning.

One student, a shiny-sweet undergrad who has gone straight into her Master’s degree, has just denounced professor whatshisface for having a strict no-interaction policy with his online students.
As I write professor whatshisface’s name on my notepad I say loudly… this is just to remind me not to select his subject! The group laughs then the girl looks at me earnestly, helpfully and says… aha… but if you want an easy subject his assignments are basic…
I stop, a little too quickly, and say,
But I’m not here for easy.

There is a thickness in the air.

Then I laugh.
The tension is broken. The group chuckles. I hope she was joking they think collectively.

But, truth is, I wasn’t.

As I walk to my car after class, I have one of those doh-moments-of-clarity.

Online dictionaries do not require you to know that-
el comes before emenoh-pee.

I beep my car open, toss Sol Stein onto the seat and fossick around in my bag for my iphone.
I finger-flick past the page that has my dictionary and thesaurus apps searching for the voice recorder.

I press record.
And I say:

Mental note:
tomorrow go and buy the little Miss her very own dictionary.

Stein, S 1995, Stein On Writing A Master Editor of Some of the Most Successful Writers of Our Century Shares His Craft Techniques and Strategies, St Martin’s Press, New York, p 144.

I received an advanced copy of the anthology,
Miscellaneous Voices Australian Blog Writing #1
and I have to say… I’m really quite honoured to be included amongst such fine Australian writers.
Launch date: April 14th 2010, Readings, Lygon Street.

My son is the family jokester.

We call him Jerry, because sometimes he channels Seinfeld… but most of the time he’s a total Lewis through and through.

He decided he wanted to play a birthday trick on his little sister, Miss A. So he concocted this (err…not very original) idea of wrapping up a pack of knickers and giving it to her, as though it was the only gift she was going to receive.

I looked at him a bit puzzled.

You don’t know your sister very well, I said.

But he was already chuckling at the hilarity of it all and he picked out a pack o’five for his joke.

In the morning we serenaded Miss A with the traditional rendition of the happy birthday song (meaning we sang it properly, not the you-smell-like-a-monkey version…) and he gave her the present, barely suppressing a smirk as he watched her unwrap it.

Undies, she smiled, thanks they’re really nice, she said flinging her arms around me and giving me a big, long hug.
Her brother waited for the question… Is there anything else? Or the expectant look around in case there was another gift waiting… but there was nothing but cuddle… glorious cuddly-cuddle.

Over her head I looked at him and I raised one… single… eyebrow.

Now if you haven’t seen this particular look before, my heart breaks for you ‘cos you were obviously orphaned at birth… as it’s a look every Mother gives her child at least once (if not, let’s face it, a hell-of-alot-of more times) in their lives.

One, very carefully raised eyebrow equals… see I tooooold you so AND why don’t you ever listen to your mother… all wrapped up in a little arched n’hairy caterpillar of maternal guilt.

Yes, the eyebrow could very well be the single most powerful tool a Mother has at her disposal…
and I can work it like a master…

On seeing the eyebrow-of-doom Miss A’s big brother scurried away to retrieve the real present he had bought, (with his very own money… yeah I have to cut him a little slack for that, he is after all only eleven…) which was a pair of prized iCarly PJ’s (what’s that I hear you say… you haven’t heard of iCarly? Ahhh sorry I can’t be fekked explaining… suffice to say she’s the latest marketable invention in the licensing spin-cycle for cash… see your local Target for more details…) and as predicted Miss A adored them.

And then I gave her my gift.

Which was something she had admired in a jewellery shop window a while ago.
But never asked for.

A plaited leather, Pandora bracelet.

Which she liked because,

a) Mum look it’s pink!

And…

b) Look Mum, money from the sale of each bracelet go to Breast Cancer research.



She turned nine today.


And she could teach a lot of kids, double her age, a lesson in grace.


*********

Happy Birthday Sweetheart,
Love from Mum, Dad… and… Jerry.

*********

I’m back at the beach this morning filling my senses with the textures and sounds of the seaside. There are only a few other solitary people sharing the shore with me.
A woman and her dog. An elderly man in sensible shoes. A jogger in black shorts.

As I walk along I see the footprints of others who have walked the beach already this morning. Contours of feet and runners embedded in the sand, crisscrossing over and on top of each other.

Most of us forget about the tracks we leave behind because we’ve been taught to always surge forward, get on with our plans.
Everyone else stares at the glorious horizon as the sun mounts a new day.
But I… well, I’m just looking down at each of my steps and the imprint they leave in the damp ground. One in front of the other.

~
~

I’m taking a small break away from myself right now.

Away from mum and wife and lover and aunty and sister and daughter and friend and boss.

What’s left is just me. No labels. Not beautiful. Raw.

I’ve shed my watch and my wedding band.
There’s no makeup, no hair straightener, no heels and no designer handbags. My hair whips across my face curly-wild, and freckles show through my flushed cheeks.

~
~

The tide chases at my feet.

I ponder all those labels that have adhered themselves to me. They feel like grim post-it notes laying claim to my time and energy.
They’ve never bothered me before, yet now they make me feel duty-bound. Not trapped. But weighted down. Sinking.

I’m not paying attention and the water catches my ankle, splashing up my leg cold and foamy. I resign myself to the fact that there’s no chance now that the sand won’t stick to my feet, so I give in and walk in the low tide, enjoying the wet feeling underfoot.

Suddenly I’m not sure why I just didn’t walk in the water in the first place.

Those labels, I realise, are really nothing more than the applications of ourselves, according to who we are with, at any given moment.
And just like real post-it notes the stickiness is removable and reusable.

I stop for a minute to look at how far I’ve come, because while goal setting is imperative, it is utterly unreliable if you don’t understand the importance of seeing, for good or for bad, where you’ve already been.

And the labels, that moments before seemed like anchors, suddenly become the sum of me.

There can be relief in knowing that I am more than just ‘self’.
That I am the composite of my children, my husband, my family, my friends, the people I share my life with, those I teach, those whom I learn from.
Those whom I love and those whom I take comfort from.

They are the structures that keep me moored, that rock me to sleep, that set me adrift.

~
~

I thought I was taking a small break away from myself right now.

But really I’ve just needed some time to be with myself.
~
~

I look down and see my footprint in the sand.

I take a photo of it because,
just like every day troubles,
it won’t be here tomorrow.
And I don’t want to ever forget,
where I’ve been.
And then I go back to the little beach flat… and write myself a post it note.

Dear A and B, thank you. Solitude is a gift immeasurable.

Of all our possessions, wisdom alone is immortal.
– Isocrates 436 – 338 BC

To my daughter I leave this memory.

In grade six my best friend was Lesley.

She was the school benchmark for all that was clever. And I never begrudged her that, because she was smart, super smart. The smartest girl in school. Everyone knew it.
And she was my friend.

At the end of the year we had a spelling test. The teacher read out the words, slowly and we wrote them down hoping to get them right… because there was a prize up for grabs. A Sunnyboy. A frozen orangey-triangle-treat from the school canteen.

Everyone was hungry for that prize.

We all knew that the last word was gonna be a tough-ey. When the teacher read it out there was an audible gasp of defeat around the room. Most of the kids had never even heard the word before.

The word was: miscellaneous.

Inside I did a victory dance! I knew that word, I knew how to spell it.
It was written on a little filing system hanging on our kitchen wall at home. I saw it every day. I even knew what it meant…
‘miscellaneous’ was where your Mum put all the bills she couldn’t afford to pay.

I could taste the triumph of orange on my lips as I wrote out the word and then stood ready for the adjudication stage.

As the teacher read out the correct spelling the kids who got a word wrong sat down. Nineteen words later there was just myself and Lesley standing quietly, next to each other.

The teacher slowly spelt out ‘m i s c e l l a n e o u s’.

Lesley and I both remained standing. We looked at each other and beamed with jubilation.

The teacher took our papers to verify. Then she looked at me and said,

“You cheated.”

The smile slipped of my face.

She cut off my protest sharply. “It’s obvious that you copied Lesley’s page.”

She then handed Lesley the little slip of paper that granted the beneficiary the tuckshop prize.

“Sit down Carla,” the teacher said “everyone give Lesley a clap… she’s the winner.”

And I did sink to my chair and I did feel the sting of tears plop onto my red cheeks.
But I never looked down.
So I leave this memory to my darling daughter,
because in life there will always be someone that doubts you.

The trick is, when faced with adversity, always remain dignified… and never ever doubt yourself.

The truth isn’t out there.

It’s inside you.

~
~
~

To my son I leave this memory.

When I was a kid, perhaps nine or so, my parents took us the Royal Easter Show in Sydney.
Gawd it was a blast!
Carnival rides and stinky farm animals and showbags full of teeth-rotting candy and loads of yummy-junky things to eat and drink.
And speaking of drinking… there was a shiny new stall with a drink we’d never heard of back then… although you’d all be familiar with it now… it proclaimed itself to be a
“Tropical Slushy… the COOLEST drink in the WORLD!”
…and boy did it look tempting…
But would I like it?
I ummmed and ahhhed… I wasn’t sure.
My Mum, being ever practical decided that my little sister would get one first and then I’d give it a try. If I liked it I’d get one for myself.
It seemed to be a perfect plan… except that when she came back with the drink my bratty little sister wouldn’t hand it over for me to have a try.

At first I was puzzled, “Gimme a try.” I said.
But she gripped that cup like it was her lifeforce.
“Give me a try.” I said more forcefully.
Still she wouldn’t let it budge.
Now I was single mindedly determined… I wrenched the cup from her hand and took a long drink from the straw…
Fekme… it was delicious.
I looked up.
Fekme… that wasn’t my little sister!

I stood rooted to the spot, clutching onto the cup of tropical embarrassment, as the little girl whose drink I’d just stolen let go a screech-of-shock and ran sobbing to her Mother.

The rest of the incident is a vague blur of apologies and lining up to buy her a new drink and so I leave this memory to you, my son, because it always makes you laugh.

And because I want you to know…
that if you want something, if you want anything,
don’t let anyone tell you no.

But if you make a silly mistake, don’t succumb to the weight of the world…
learn to laugh at yourself.

And then move on.