I have a confession to make.
I have been a very bad student.
In the eight weeks since the Albury Writer’s Festival I have written diddly-squat.
…That is to say, I, as always have “coloured outside the lines” on this particular assignment by utilising my student blog as more of a diary and less of an academic journal. It wasn’t a conscious decision, it seldom is. It’s just that now, as we approach the hour of submission and I sit frantically reviewing my creative output which was tentatively typed around the time of the Writer’s festival, not only do I realise that my every post is absolute pants, but also, that I was really rather depressed for the duration of the festival as is my seemingly eternal biological constitution. - Oh please, there’s no need to seize up as I mention the dreaded ‘D’ word. I’m not asking you to do something so daring as to care. I believe that we all carry own special flavour of shit sandwich in our emotional lunchbox, mine just happens to be oozing manic depression. And that is completely fine.
Although, I do feel an overwhelming urge to sincerely apologise to the two pairs of eyes that may or may not skim my few emotionally charged blog posts. Of course, I did contemplate deleting everything and starting again. But whatever for? It’s quite rare these days to catch me at a moment of creative clarity whence I am capable of writing exactly what it is I feel I must portray. So I write through the fog and hope that someone might decipher my meaning. Whatever that means.
For many years I had pretentiously thought of myself as a ‘writer by compulsion’ I often felt compelled to bear witness to the tedious and the treacherous forces in our world, to give an account of all things from the comfort of my quasi-youthful perception. However, as I grew visibly older and assumedly colder, I couldn’t help but feel that my literary voice was almost entirely without purpose. Although, it probably should be noted that I have never had the naivety nor tenacity to seek an audience for fear of personal persecution. My witterings have largely been for my own amusement or catharsis.
Yet, I have often imagined what it would be like to be on the receiving end of the adoration I heap upon my literary heroes. One such literary hero of mine found his fame as the lyricist and lead singer of 80’s band ‘The Smiths” but that is ancient classical history now. He only answers to one name, he is the ultimate. The poet for the downtrodden and enduringly tear-sodden. The unmatchable, magniloquent Mancunian… Morrissey.
When he stands on the stage, he REALLY stands on the stage. Though when he writes a novel he doesn’t REALLY write a novel. Morrissey’s 2015 foray into fiction was more of a 118 page love letter to like-minded entities, which in typical Morrissey style perfectly aligns with his philosophies; For dear Morrissey has previously made it known that One should not waste their time attempting to impress those who ‘did not like you then and do not like you now’ (Dial a Cliche’ - VIVA HATE) Which to me, is incredibly sound advice applicable to virtually everyone in virtually every field and facet of life.
Upon reading Morrissey’s novel entitled “List of the Lost” I experienced many moments of epiphany. Such moments of profound, earnest understanding served to deepen my adoration for the man affectionately known as Moz. As I read his words, I discovered page upon page of pure creative resonance reverberating throughout my wounded psyche and touching me on levels that are rarely skimmed by the sentiments of other authors or artists. I felt as if something very special had passed between he and I regardless of the fact that he knew nothing of my individual existence, he had still somehow managed to write a book for someone like me, assumedly in the hope that someone, somewhere would understand. In fact, I could delude myself in to thinking that he wrote the book just for me - solely for perusing by mine own precocious peepers,…though I do reluctantly acknowledge that such a notion is a girlish fancy too far.
Last Saturday night I was queuing outside the WIN theatre in Wollongong - a seaside town that might be likened to the sweaty armpit of the world, yet, for a single day in the history of ‘The Gong’ the usual sea-spray percolated melancholia was momentarily dispersed by the arrival of Morrissey to their dated, dowdy shores. Wollongong has never played host to the likes of Morrissey and I’m certain that they never will again. After hours of anticipation, sprawled on a patch of itchy crab-grass outside the venue, kept company by an equally passionate army of Morrissey faithfuls, we were initially confronted with the inevitable poking and prodding of modern security protocols and upon being deemed ‘acceptable’ bestowed with fluorescent paper wrist-bands which allowed us entry to Morrissey Mecca.
We were warned not to run but I blatantly disobeyed as every cell of my being propelled me to the barrier. I was determined that tonight was the night. I was going to have an interaction with Morrissey and it was going to be glorious. In hindsight, I suspect that this determination was written all over my face as I risked ejection from the venue by leering towards the stage each and every time he walked my way. eventually my persistence payed off as he walked towards me, mid chorus, our eyes locked, he bent down, I extended my hand even further towards him and we made contact. I held his hand for all of four seconds but it felt like an eternity. In my shock the only words I could string together were “Thank-You Morrissey” he closed his eyes, nodded and looked to be slightly embarrassed as I burst in to a fit of tears and found refuge in my partners arms for the remainder of the song. That was it. I had touched my idol. Morrissey’s songs have seen me through the toughest of times and the most triumphant of triumphs and at last he had seen me. My devotion had been validated. My lunacy suddenly not so seemingly vain. Post-gig, we decided that our appetite for Moz could not be so easily satiated, so we set out to get a glimpse of him leaving the venue, unfortunately to no avail.
This is what happens when you meet your hero’s.
You are left wanting more.
Even if they give you everything,
You. Still. Want. More.
Much like creating your own fictional world, you can give your everything to perfecting your plot-line and sculpting your characters into deep, rich, fictional beings, - you can dedicate your every waking moment to conveying a heartfelt message and telling an important story but when all is said and done, it just won’t be enough. You are your biggest critic and furtively your own most fervent fan. And you know that it will never be enough, so long as you are invested you will need to invest more - Yet, as long as you are shirking your creative impulses you are doing yourself a fatal detriment. So… we have choices, choose creative torture, mental damnation and self flagellation or choose a steady job that pays a decent wage and might, maybe, perhaps, possibly allow you to write that half-baked novel “one-day”.
But one day “one-day” will be a day too late
whence your mortal form succumbs to fate.
Oh dear!
rhyming couplets signal the end of the evening.
I am left with little choice but to upload the few pages of tatty typeface that my addled mind has birthed in the past few weeks.
This is not the last time I will apologise.
You will eventually find it charming.
Saturday, 5 November 2016
From the tortured recesses of my mind.
It shouldn't have to be this agonising. For fucks sake Hayley, you’re a writer. Just write.
I’ve been rattled. This is the swirling sentiment that led to the cyber publication of the utter undergraduate shit you’re about to skim. sincerest apologies.
The MAMA exhibition was called ‘The Unsettling’ - and yes, the art pinned or hung or sideways spun on the great,wide,white walls of the Gallery was undoubtedly ‘unsettling’.
However, inwardly as I wandered the exhibition I noted that I was having trouble connecting with most of the art - Of course, I realise that this is all part of a bigger problem. I’ve been having trouble connecting with most of myself. except the angry, juvenile, sarcastic part you’re about to become acquainted with.
I (that is to say, the egoic self-identity that my consciousness stealthily inhabits) claims to revel in all that is considered ‘unsettling’.
If I was one to give gravitas to certain parental opinions I might be persuaded to agree that
I share an inexplicable kinship with ‘wrongness’ and all that is considered to embody traits of the ‘irksome’.
I have lived ‘The Unsettling’. My whole, entire, miserable-fucking- existence has been ‘unsettling’.
If anything, The exhibition evoked some of the more pleasant memories of my childhood. How fucked up is that? when the image of a violent father-figure gives you the warm-and-fuzzies you know that it’s time to check yourself.
I heard the quadrant of my mind that arrests my consciousness at the most poignant of moments and whispers my mother’s truths in her agreeable silken voice loudly and dramatically sigh before a less evolved segment of my mind exclaimed mock-sarcastically ‘in-ter-ven-tion!’. Instinctually I made myself scarce, hiding in plain sight from eyes that eternally judge and voices that insistently, incessantly question.
Standing, invisibly, in the scrum of a dozen or more art-hounds with lips zipped, breath silently held and butt cheeks unconsciously clenched, in a near-failed attempt to contain the spillage of the metaphorical emotional diarrhoea that I imagined was visibly leaking out of my every pore;
Hoping desperately that nobody would observe my forced composure or ask me how i felt about the art. Luckily, I barely had to endure an expectant glance and busied myself in a conversation about an assumedly Russian artist’s motivation for depicting such a “narratively ambiguous” scene, there was talk of Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Nabakov, Chekov ….lots of the ‘kov’s’ and my over-utilised social small-talk muscle ached with wanting. This was ‘big talk’ usually I love ‘big talk’ . Not today. Today I want to retire to an early evolutionary cave and fling poo at my contemporaries. (Oh look at me, I’m on the art scene now, baby. *clinks artisan wine glass and laughs at an unfunny remark obnoxiously*) Clearly, if I plan to stick around above mortal ground for any measurable period of time I have a vast quantity of therapy sessions to pay for before I can begin to rid myself of my terribly unattractive, over-reactive characteristically dystopian world-view. Oh, Mother forgive me.
Contentment was and had always been a near-foreign concept for me. It’s what happens to people when they stop wanting. When they read a buddhist theory hardback and undergo their own period of enlightenment. ‘Remove desire and eliminate suffering’ the mantra touted by content buddhist converts the world over.
If only I could truly find this elusive ‘inner-peace’
Perhaps it might provide the missing piece.
Today I am deeply defeated, yet another malady not easily treated.
(*enter the world’s smallest violin*)
I’ve been rattled. This is the swirling sentiment that led to the cyber publication of the utter undergraduate shit you’re about to skim. sincerest apologies.
The MAMA exhibition was called ‘The Unsettling’ - and yes, the art pinned or hung or sideways spun on the great,wide,white walls of the Gallery was undoubtedly ‘unsettling’.
However, inwardly as I wandered the exhibition I noted that I was having trouble connecting with most of the art - Of course, I realise that this is all part of a bigger problem. I’ve been having trouble connecting with most of myself. except the angry, juvenile, sarcastic part you’re about to become acquainted with.
I (that is to say, the egoic self-identity that my consciousness stealthily inhabits) claims to revel in all that is considered ‘unsettling’.
If I was one to give gravitas to certain parental opinions I might be persuaded to agree that
I share an inexplicable kinship with ‘wrongness’ and all that is considered to embody traits of the ‘irksome’.
I have lived ‘The Unsettling’. My whole, entire, miserable-fucking- existence has been ‘unsettling’.
If anything, The exhibition evoked some of the more pleasant memories of my childhood. How fucked up is that? when the image of a violent father-figure gives you the warm-and-fuzzies you know that it’s time to check yourself.
I heard the quadrant of my mind that arrests my consciousness at the most poignant of moments and whispers my mother’s truths in her agreeable silken voice loudly and dramatically sigh before a less evolved segment of my mind exclaimed mock-sarcastically ‘in-ter-ven-tion!’. Instinctually I made myself scarce, hiding in plain sight from eyes that eternally judge and voices that insistently, incessantly question.
Standing, invisibly, in the scrum of a dozen or more art-hounds with lips zipped, breath silently held and butt cheeks unconsciously clenched, in a near-failed attempt to contain the spillage of the metaphorical emotional diarrhoea that I imagined was visibly leaking out of my every pore;
Hoping desperately that nobody would observe my forced composure or ask me how i felt about the art. Luckily, I barely had to endure an expectant glance and busied myself in a conversation about an assumedly Russian artist’s motivation for depicting such a “narratively ambiguous” scene, there was talk of Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Nabakov, Chekov ….lots of the ‘kov’s’ and my over-utilised social small-talk muscle ached with wanting. This was ‘big talk’ usually I love ‘big talk’ . Not today. Today I want to retire to an early evolutionary cave and fling poo at my contemporaries. (Oh look at me, I’m on the art scene now, baby. *clinks artisan wine glass and laughs at an unfunny remark obnoxiously*) Clearly, if I plan to stick around above mortal ground for any measurable period of time I have a vast quantity of therapy sessions to pay for before I can begin to rid myself of my terribly unattractive, over-reactive characteristically dystopian world-view. Oh, Mother forgive me.
Contentment was and had always been a near-foreign concept for me. It’s what happens to people when they stop wanting. When they read a buddhist theory hardback and undergo their own period of enlightenment. ‘Remove desire and eliminate suffering’ the mantra touted by content buddhist converts the world over.
If only I could truly find this elusive ‘inner-peace’
Perhaps it might provide the missing piece.
Today I am deeply defeated, yet another malady not easily treated.
(*enter the world’s smallest violin*)
Oh! - The Joy of Festivals.
For many people the term “festival” implies havoc. It conjures vivid images of dry Australian paddocks or boggy Scottish hinterlands, rife with mud or bugs or both; tent-cities swarming with drugged-up, fucked-up, flower-crown-wearing, “I’m here au-pairing” teenage revellers. Food truck lined perimeters serving salmonella and gastroenteritis in polystyrene boxes, queues upon queues, aisles upon aisles of port-a-loos smeared with the remnants of mass dysentery and pent-up sexual desire; the stench of which has often been known to induce dry-retching in even the most accustomed of party animals. Oh how very, terribly romantic!
Then of course there is the Writers Festival which is, by nature, a different kettle of fish entirely.
The aforementioned factors surely justify or at least explain my defiant evasion of any and all events that proclaim themselves to be a “Festival”. Hence my dispositional reservedness upon hearing that La Trobe was offering a subject called “Writers In Action” that involved full attendance and participation at the 2016 ‘Write Around the Murray Festival in Albury’. “Hmmm” I thought to myself “I sure would like 15 credit points for a week of attendance” … “I hear there’s free wine” said a fellow Student … “ I think there’s free food” surmised a Tutor … “I think I’m enrolling!” declared my inner monologue all ablaze with gluttony and self doubt. Of course, before I could recklessly abandon my festival-phobia I had to come to the conclusion that, on balance, I revel in literature, language and learning about the art of writing more than I dislike festivals and their usually pretentious, pox-ridden participants. Furthermore, I had to swear with the simple fact that I, like many financially frugal university students enjoy free food and wine more than I could ever possibly dislike or purposely shirk anything else. So it was settled. I was to go to the Writer’s Festival, I was confident that such an event would be remarkably civilised and I’m pleased to report that for once, just for once, I was not wrong.
Upon arrival at MAMA which for the purposes of this article will be referred to as WIA HQ (Writers In Action Headquarters), I was shown to “The Board-room” which boasted chairs fit to accommodate the rear-end of any corporate big-wig you care to mention. An array of books sitting patiently on their shelves with titillating titles and seductive covers begging to be read, poured over and innately understood. And there, smack bang in the middle of the room stood the most impressive and aesthetically perfect red-gum table complete with fruit platter and a side of social anxieties (Don’t be the first one to eat the grapes). It was at this moment that I realised I might actually be having a good time. What? That’s virtually unheard of!
If you're looking to socialise with drunken, broody types the likes of a Hunter.S.Thompson or Pete Doherty you might be better suited to a Sunday arvo on Tinder. However, if you fancy yourself a bright, young (or not so young) thing not yet tainted nor phased by the penetrating glares of countless literary nay-sayers, fatally determined to espouse your life-learned wisdom to a world of potential empathisers through literary mediums then perhaps the writers festival is the perfect place for you.
If you secretly harbor even the most fanciful and hypothetical of literary ambitions I can almost guarantee that you will enjoy your well-read self brushing shoulders with local literati …..and if you don’t….. There’s free booze people. Surely I mentioned the free booze.
There really is something on offer for everyone from Poetry slam to Monologues to Q and A sessions with renowned local Authors. If you have questions about craft, The Writers Festival is the place to get them answered.
Then of course there is the Writers Festival which is, by nature, a different kettle of fish entirely.
The aforementioned factors surely justify or at least explain my defiant evasion of any and all events that proclaim themselves to be a “Festival”. Hence my dispositional reservedness upon hearing that La Trobe was offering a subject called “Writers In Action” that involved full attendance and participation at the 2016 ‘Write Around the Murray Festival in Albury’. “Hmmm” I thought to myself “I sure would like 15 credit points for a week of attendance” … “I hear there’s free wine” said a fellow Student … “ I think there’s free food” surmised a Tutor … “I think I’m enrolling!” declared my inner monologue all ablaze with gluttony and self doubt. Of course, before I could recklessly abandon my festival-phobia I had to come to the conclusion that, on balance, I revel in literature, language and learning about the art of writing more than I dislike festivals and their usually pretentious, pox-ridden participants. Furthermore, I had to swear with the simple fact that I, like many financially frugal university students enjoy free food and wine more than I could ever possibly dislike or purposely shirk anything else. So it was settled. I was to go to the Writer’s Festival, I was confident that such an event would be remarkably civilised and I’m pleased to report that for once, just for once, I was not wrong.
Upon arrival at MAMA which for the purposes of this article will be referred to as WIA HQ (Writers In Action Headquarters), I was shown to “The Board-room” which boasted chairs fit to accommodate the rear-end of any corporate big-wig you care to mention. An array of books sitting patiently on their shelves with titillating titles and seductive covers begging to be read, poured over and innately understood. And there, smack bang in the middle of the room stood the most impressive and aesthetically perfect red-gum table complete with fruit platter and a side of social anxieties (Don’t be the first one to eat the grapes). It was at this moment that I realised I might actually be having a good time. What? That’s virtually unheard of!
If you're looking to socialise with drunken, broody types the likes of a Hunter.S.Thompson or Pete Doherty you might be better suited to a Sunday arvo on Tinder. However, if you fancy yourself a bright, young (or not so young) thing not yet tainted nor phased by the penetrating glares of countless literary nay-sayers, fatally determined to espouse your life-learned wisdom to a world of potential empathisers through literary mediums then perhaps the writers festival is the perfect place for you.
If you secretly harbor even the most fanciful and hypothetical of literary ambitions I can almost guarantee that you will enjoy your well-read self brushing shoulders with local literati …..and if you don’t….. There’s free booze people. Surely I mentioned the free booze.
There really is something on offer for everyone from Poetry slam to Monologues to Q and A sessions with renowned local Authors. If you have questions about craft, The Writers Festival is the place to get them answered.
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