Accidents, war and jigsaw puzzles

It’s time I invested in a separate table for my jigsaw puzzle pieces.

The other day, one of my grandsons knocked over his water glass at dinner and water cascaded the length of the table down to my incomplete jigsaw puzzle where it enveloped several pieces.

This is an excellent puzzle with thick cardboard pieces, a few of which have now come unstuck from their base, like a wedge heel coming off a platform shoe. The pieces are intact but split down the middle.

My husband reckons we can glue them back together once dry but somehow their unstuckness represents so much more than a few unstuck jigsaw puzzle pieces.

The dog just joined me at my desk and is now there at my feet eager for company in the way of dogs.

It amazes me how little he needs by way of comfort, just the simple proximity of a human will do. Whereas we humans seem to need and want so much more, so much more that life can become a grind of satisfying our own and one another’s expectations.

I feel this strongly during holidays when my own expectations of getting a rest don’t necessarily match the events that life throws up and I’d prefer not to have the added burden of expecting to a rest on top of the usual stresses.

The other day, I heard Robert Dessaix on the radio talking to David Mann about Dessaix’s book The Pleasure of Leisure and the whole time I listened I found myself annoyed.

There was something cosy about the two men chattering to one another with their various definitions of laziness and indolence versus idleness. And they were talking from an historical perspective as well.

I only caught the opening of the talk, which was just as well. By the time, I pulled into the driveway of our house I had had enough of what I heard as the privilege of two older white guys going on about the need to take things easy.

These days I hear everything from this perspective.

Who is the privileged one – including myself at times – and who gets to do the work?

I’ve got it in for male writers at the moment, with apologies to any of my male readers here.

Yesterday, I went to the en suite bathroom and noticed my husband’s book, one of several he has on the go. Chris Masters’ book, No Front Line.

Could this be the same Chris Masters, journalist, whose mother, Olga Masters, I first heard about and read when I began on my writing journey forty years ago? She who had something like six children and who did not start her own writing career until later in life when her children were more or less grown and then she became a brief sensation in the literary world before dying young, or at least young in relative terms.

It saddened me then and it saddens me now. Her life cut short, her life split in half, between her obligations as a parent and her life as a writer.

How would it have been had it occurred to her she could have started earlier? And she might well have started writing earlier but it took till mid to later age before she could venture into seeking publication. And it all takes so long.

So there is Chris Masters’ book on the en suite vanity and I dip into it and read about war. I recoil at the language and at the pictures. Not a woman in sight except perhaps some poor peasant woman from Afghanistan caught up in the fighting and I despise war and the stuff that brings it about.

This violent approach to life polarises us and I know full well women can get into it too but women are not the drivers of war.

I helped my younger grandson make a gun yesterday out of an offcut of wood and a Texta, one of those Textas with a cap out of which a section protrudes onto which you can attach the caps of other like Textas so that they join in a row.

He used this section on the cap as his trigger and needed my help to fit the Texta and wood tight together with sticky tape so that he had his gun ready for firing then walked around the house shooting at imaginary targets.

I know these ways of operating are learned, constructed not hard wired and that he picked up such ideas from his online experience and from his older brother and peers, and it’s not a tragedy, it is what it is.

No matter we don’t run around with guns in Australia, my grandson is still drawn to them for all the complex reasons available to our understanding.

But it too feels spilt to me, between the need to develop some understanding of the dangers of guns and not idealise them as little boys do and the need to tolerate his aggressive impulses and learn to tame them as we girls are taught from earliest days to tame ours.

I was annoyed with my grandson when he spilled the water not that I carried on too much about it.

It was, after all, an accident, but it still rankles to see my jig saw pieces  damaged just as I was beginning to get into this new bright and cheerful experience.

Of putting together another world.  A cacophony of cats.

My jig saw on completion with the split pieces no longer visible.

The stuff of secrets

‘Don’t tell anyone I told you this,’ you say.

‘Don’t tell.’

‘Don’t tell, and I’ll fill your head with thoughts that you must keep to yourself. You and I are in on this alone.’

Only we’re not alone, others know but it’s up to them as to whether they share this information.

Still, you and I must keep our knowledge secret, not because of you, but because of me.

I would not want to be seen as someone who gossips, or who shares secrets around.

And so it goes.

Once again, I’m sworn to secrecy.

I have secrets, but I keep them to myself.

I tell no one my secrets because once I tell, they’re not secret anymore.

Let’s face it, secrets generally hold more than one person in their web.

Sure a person can have a guilty secret: I smashed a window down at the housing estate when I was young. I did it alone in a fit of rage and I’ve told no one. Don’t tell a soul.

This is a secret one person can hold onto alone.

At a conference, Maria Tumarkin once said that children are like ‘sniffer dogs for secrets’. She used the example of her grandmother who picked at the crumbs on their dinner table even as she’d had plenty to eat.

As a child, Tumarkin could not understand this behaviour but she recognised in it the seeds of something unspoken, and in time learned the secret of her grandmother’s traumatic past.

When she herself was young, Tumarkin’s grandmother starved during the pogroms in Russia.

Tumarkin knew there was a secret, one her grandmother refused to discuss at the time.

So many secrets and most of them pass us by unnoticed.

Given I grew up in a family of secrets, every day a secret, my father’s behaviour towards my sister in the night, a source of shame to our entire family, I learned to keep secrets.

Is it shame that makes us keep secrets, our own shame or the shame of another?

One of my brothers insisted, even when we were adults that we keep my father’s story a secret until certain people were dead.

He never clarified those who should die before the secrets were out. Was he protecting these certain people from the shame of exposure?

There’s a scene in the film, ‘Notes on a Scandal’, where the central character, Sheba, played by Cate Blanchett, is caught out having an affair with a student, some twenty years her junior and given the story is set in the early 2000s in Britain, her act is criminal and eventually she’s taken to court and the parents waiting outside the courthouse are baying for her blood.

The police lead Sheba from the courthouse through the furious crowd and she is in shock. The shock of shame. The look on her face. A look of despair. Utterly recognisable.

Banished from the world of decent human beings, because her so-called friend, Barbara, an older history teacher, played by Judi Dench, reveals her secret, intentionally because Barbara is hell bent on revenge. Sheba had betrayed Barbara by not loving her enough.

I have a good friend who reminds me regularly that human beings are primitive, even at the best of times.

Put us under pressure and we resort to base human cruelty or degenerate attitudes that show our darker side. We try to stay civilised, at least most of us do, most of the time, but when it comes to secrets, it’s not so easy.

‘Your seceret is safe with me,’ I might say.

‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.’

I’m good with secrets. I’ve kept my own for years, so why not keep yours?

Though as time passes, we can lose track of who told us what and which of what was told to us is secret, to be held in the dark, and which of what has been told us is up for grabs and open for further discussion.

Some things can slip out.

Some things not.

One of my daughters introduces me to her friends as ‘My Mum, who has no filter’.

No filter indeed. Little does she know.

I, too, have my secrets, my filters. I, too, make decisions about what can go out there into the world as coming from me and what not. And although I might write things she would never in a lifetime let on to other people, there are other things, I hold close to me.

Though at the same time, I try not to let too many of my emotions show on my face when they pop up from time to time because my thoughts are often writ large in the creases on my cheeks, chin and forehead.

I cannot stop a reaction from entering my physiology even as I might keep the words to myself.

We all do. We say so much more than words. We share so much more than ideas about events and people. We share attitudes and knowledge.

 

I do not like to be distrusted.

I do not like this idea that I am not a safe person to whom you might talk because I cannot keep a secret.

If you want me to keep your secrets, please don’t tell me them in the first place and if they slip out please allow me to be the one who decides what I shall do with them.

Given this is indeed my decision, as it is your decision to keep the things I tell you to yourself, or not as you choose.

I can’t remember ever asking someone to keep something secret, except when I was thirteen or fourteen and my older sister had told me the facts of life to my horror and she had told me to keep the knowledge to myself and not tell my less than two years younger sister who in our older sister’s eyes was too young to know these facts.

I did not agree with my older sister but never told her so.

Instead, there in one of the half constructed AV Jennings houses that littered the empty market gardens of Cheltenham behind our house, I skipped from bare floor beam to bear floor beam and breathed in the stink of untreated wood and of the glue the went into holding some of bits together and told my younger sister all about what my older sister had told me, about what men and women get up to when they want to make babies.

My younger sister was less horrified than I had been. Perhaps because I had forewarned her on the seriousness of or topic.

Perhaps, because she knew things already that I did not know. She who had entered my father’s bedroom when she was home sick after several months of hospitalisation in Fairfield infectious diseases hospital with rheumatic fever. And on the days my father was also home sick or off work after a bender, he had called her into his bedroom and asked her to help him wash his penis.

I did not know this secret then. I have only come into this information in recent times from a source other than my younger sister.

Perhaps because my younger sister would also like for it to stay a secret. More of my father’s shame that becomes her shame because she was still a child and he should have known better than to drag her into something so disturbing as to confuse her about the meaning of bodies and relationships and touch.

There now, I’ve let out another secret.

I’m afraid I’m compulsive when it comes to divulging certain secrets.

But they’re secrets I reckon must come to light if only to shake off some more shame.

 

 

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