Tag: Gail Jones

Things happen

When the Australian writer Helen Garner published ‘The Life of Art’ embedded in her Collected Fiction Stories I was entranced. Its rhythm coiled inside like an ear worm. I listened to it on tape repeatedly and found myself walking to its beat. The resonance of her opening words, My friend and I…

 Around this time, a beloved friend died unexpectedly. A bug had crept into her blood stream, a type of gangrene that ate her tissues, rather as soldiers in the Great War endured from infections caught in the trenches.

My grief clung to me. I couldn’t get my friend’s death out of my mind. It piled in along with the miscarriage of my fourth child. I needed to write about these events, but how?

Garners’ story offered me a structure, even in her choice of words, My friend and I. And so, my story ‘Things Happen’ came into being.

My friend invited us to dinner. It was hot. She had left the side doors open to catch the breeze. One of her rabbits hopped through and skittered across the carpet.  

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘My rabbits are toilet-trained.’

Reading Brevity, as I do religiously, I came across an essay on the business of writing mosaic, which is akin to the braided forms writers elsewhere describe. Writers like Gail Jones who is interested in the far away, in the offing. What you can see from the shoreline, and the stuff of human connectedness, which might not seem obvious. Jones writes of vertigo. A type of sea sickness sailors experience when they scan the horizon. 

That last time I saw my friend I was still bleeding. When I went to the toilet, and saw the pad soaked through to my dress, I realised I must have been dripping through onto her seat cushion. The cushion was coloured a dark burgundy like my dress and the room was lit with candles. I hoped she would not notice.

I had lost the baby three days earlier. The doctor called it the lottery of pregnancy. 

Whenever we think, we do not think in seamless moves, Jones argues. Rather we think in blocks of understanding, ‘glancing across one another’. Jones’s book Sixty Lights includes sixty blocks. It requires an active reading. The method is paratactic. So is mine. 

My friend never had children of her own. She had wanted them, she told me, but they never happened.  

Parataxis involves putting clauses and phrases together without connecting words. When we put two or more chunks of information together, even distinct pieces of information, the human mind will seek to find connections between them, even when the links are not obvious.

My friend wore glasses, with lenses thick like the bottom of milk bottles. 

‘I couldn’t bear to go blind,’ she said, lifting her glasses to rub at her eyes. ‘I’d rather die first.’  

At night she sat close to her computer screen composing letters of complaint to the editor, her last surviving rabbit, a barren female, hopping under her feet. 

‘Silence is a crime,’ my friend said.  

Jones speaks about the way the seafarers in all of us can experience a type of delusional state like a sailor’s homesickness for solidity, such that the sailor begins to believe the ocean is the land. The waves become rolling fields and hills, so they fling themselves overboard. Their bodies ‘yearning for stability’, as in the story of Moby Dick.  

In her fiftieth year, five years earlier, my friend had bought a red sports car, sleek, contoured, and close to the ground. She drove it with the sunroof down, her green scarf streaking behind in the wind. An Isadora Duncan scarf. My friend laughed when I told her how, in the 1920s at the height of her dancing career, the scarf on Isadora’s swan-like neck got caught in the spokes of her car’s wheel and strangled her.

The adjective paratactic comes from the Greek word παράταξις for parataxis meaning to place side by side. Or in literature, putting together two clauses or phrases without a conjunction. Other terms used to describe this method in relation to essay writing include the discontinuous method, or collage. 

Carl Klaus argues these terms are intended as ‘metaphors’ only for a particular style of writing that is ‘too complex to grasp in a single word’. This method is not new. Writers like Montaigne and Bacon used it centuries ago to reflect ‘the fragmentary manner in which thoughts come to mind or suddenly change direction.’ 

Writing becomes not simply a record of events, experiences, and ideas but an embodiment of the process of thinking behind such ideas. As Klaus writes, ‘the segmented form and shifting focus of the discontinuous essay tends to suggest the wide-ranging movement of a mind in the process of pondering a particular subject or experience.’

My friend died in the afternoon when the temperature in Melbourne reached 40.3 Celsius, the hottest November day for 86 years. They turned off her life support. She did not tell me she was leaving. I did not hear a whisper.  

Discontinuous or mosaic texts therefore demand an openness of mind on the part of the reader and a preparedness to be jolted and swayed in the exposition of ideas that refuse to be pinned down in any strict form. They are too layered, too wide reaching and too irresolvable to be anything but explored. And the whole process is riddled with doubt.

Last night I saw my friend in a dream, sitting at her kitchen table, laughing, full bellied roars. She was wearing her green scarf, loosely draped around her neck. She sat, legs akimbo, as always, arms flying to right and left, as she remonstrated with us about the meaning of life, then grabbed hold of the nearest person at the table and pulled him to the ground.

‘Submit,’ she said. ‘On the count of five, I win.’

Apple pie order

I had such a day yesterday, a doing-jobs-I’ve-put-off-for-weeks day and now I feel that blessed relief that comes of a nasty job well done. I feel virtuous. Even as my feet are cold and I should put on socks, I can ignore them better when I feel this way. Such feelings are short-lived. I cleaned the stacks of notes surrounding me in my writing room into orderly piles and filed them as needed. I sorted the articles I need for the two essays on which I am currently working, one on migration and the other, straddling two worlds, as autobiographer and psychotherapist.

I do not know how it happens. It sneaks up on me. I begin to work on something and the books and papers begin to collect around me, one on top of the other. Then they become interspersed with letters, magazines and any other correspondence that comes in over the period. After a while I cannot find anything and yet this mess making, as I call it, becomes an inevitable part of the process for me.

Recently in The Age I read an article about Jane Clifton and her writing space, which she loves in part because it is away from her home. She can work in silence and peace all day away from domestic demands and children, then at the end of the day she can tidy up her space and return in the morning knowing the room will be in ‘apple pie order’. Her words: apple pie order. Apple pie order lasts for me as long as an apple pie would. I forgive myself this. I suspect it is the way I am.

When I work on an essay, it’s the same. I begin in a mess. I make many false starts. I cobble together bits and pieces that seem relevant from writing already written, then I try to find some narrative thread to tie them all together. I use Gail Jones’s wonderful parataxis. She has given me permission to continue in this disorderly way. To bring together what appear to be discrete blocks of writing: things that resonate for me, as having some underlying connection, even if the connection is not obvious. Then over time I work on these pieces. I play around with them. I drag one chunk from down under and bring it closer to the beginning. I add new chunks. Then at some point when I sense I have completed a good enough first draft, even though I know it is far from ready, I send it to someone like my wonderful editing and writing friend Christina Houen in the west who will read the piece through and give me an honest appraisal, often at this stage a scathing appraisal where she will point out all the bits that do not work.

More often than not, Christina will urge me to trust my own judgment, to write more autobiographically and to dispense with at least half of the wonderful quotes from other writers that I have included in my first draft. I do this every time and Christina has the same response. I love the quotes I use. I have an ear for them but she is right, they are the voices of others and sometimes my first draft can read like a collage of other people’s ideas and my own voice gets drowned. At this stage I often feel desperate, hopeless. The essay has become an impossibility. But I heed Christina’s advice. I pare back and pluck out the excess to try again.

Grace Cossington Smith, one of the artists whom Drusilla Modjeska writes about in the biography Stravinsky’s Lunch did this with her painting.

‘A continual try’, she writes. ‘It’s true of painting, it’s true of writing and it’s true of life. The process of staying with that continual try can produce long low loops and sudden illuminations, which we see in retrospect as springing open and banging closed. But in the tug and pull of time, it is another day lived, another piece of board on the easel, another squeeze from the tube…’(p. 322).

All this trying can be messy: lots of false starts, lots of unwanted bits floating around the room in the form of my notebooks, other people’s texts. My computer desktop is littered with new readings. My husband is disgusted. He is an orderly worker; he needs to be. He’s a lawyer.

At a seminar on memory several weeks ago I tackled Jeffrey Olick on his desire for order. He had talked about wanting to establish a canon for memory studies, namely his need to list a series of basic texts with which anyone should familiarise themselves in order to become proficient in the area, beginning with Holbwachs, Durkheim and the like.

People in the audience, creative types who do not follow easy, straight trajectories, challenged him. Someone offered Ross Gibson as an example of an academic whose work is scholarly but would never reach Jeffery’s canon. Jeffery’s canon is only to include theorists, no case studies, he declares.
‘Ross’s work is not scholarship,’ says Jeffrey. ‘It is art certainly, but not science.’ No room for art within Jeffrey’s canon. Then the fight was on for young and old.

When it was my turn to speak I told Jeffrey about the essay writing mantra my lawyerly husband trots out, about the need to plan: Write in the first instance what you plan to say, then write it and finally write about what you have said. There you have it: simple, so simple so neat, so orderly and to my mind so boring. I told Jeffrey before writing an essay I never plan.
‘I would not want you to be my lawyer,’ Jeffrey said after I had tried to suggest that both methods have their place, both are valid, simply different ways of approaching our work. No Jeffrey could not agree. The creative exploratory work of the Ross Gibsons of this world is all very well. But real scholarship comes out of painstaking theoretical writing that covers the field. Maria Tumarkin, Jeffrey says, is doing a bit of both. Christ knows, I think most of us are doing a bit of both, but in Jeffery’s mind the only valid work is the abstract, distinct and theoretical.

I felt for him then. He was outnumbered by most of the audience. He, the esteemed visitor from America who had been hailed the guru of memory studies and came here as a guest of Swinburne’s Institute for Social Research had been reduced to rigidity. By the end it was as if people were challenging his offering so heartily that if he were more sensitive than he appeared to be I think he could have felt very hurt and troubled. But I suspect, given his proclivity for distance and abstraction, he has a thicker hide than most of the messy creative types, all of whom, myself included are far more insecure in our undertakings. We can never have the confidence of a canon.

Canons include and exclude. Although they purport not to be definitive, they become that way simply through the power of the list. A list becomes a measure of belonging. If your work, your book, your name is on the list, you belong. If it is not, you are an outsider and somehow the outsider is measured in such academic circles, as far as I can see, as a maverick, not kosher, not rigorous enough in their scholarship.

Scholarship, schmolarship. To me it’s all about reading as much as you can within and around an area and trying hard to think your way through the ideas, the stories from the past and present, trying to come up with your own measure of things.

In my writing I have found so many ideas repeated again and again and every time I read the same idea repeated in a different voice, by a different writer, the idea takes a slightly nuanced slant in a different direction that shifts and balances the weight of other ideas. But the basic ideas remain.

Here I remind myself of my analyst’s helpful comment years ago about the nature of theory. ‘Theory,’ she said, ‘is simply other people’s ideas.’ Other people’s ideas I would add now that have been validated and confirmed by others in authoritative positions from the academy. Not every one’s ideas can be offered the label of theory. Ideas also need time to percolate within the public psyche before they can be offered the status of the theoretical. But they are ideas nevertheless and the world is full of them, and rarely can if ever reach anything like a state ‘apple pie order’.