The Journey of a Thousand Miles

Today, I received my first rejection notice.

As a writer who hopes to be published many times over, I expect this will be the first of many.  But I had hoped my first foray into the no man's land of publishing houses would have proved a tad more fruitful.  Some  indication that I am not choosing to wither away my life at the keyboard; like a neuro-surgeon whose marathon operation is vindicated by a patient's toe wiggle.

Over the years, I have been told I am my own worst critic.  If the letter I received is anything to go by, it would appear there are others far more eager to dismiss my work than I.  Especially as I considered it the best piece of writing I have produced, if not in years, then ever.  I loved the structure, the pace, the character development.  It just felt right.  If the editors had come back and asked me to adjust this sentence or that phrase, I honestly do not know if I could have.

As it was, my rejection letter took the tone of TBSS, as my work colleagues would say.  (To us mere mortals, this translates as Too Bad, So Sad.)

In days of yore, I would have dissected such a letter until I found inference and innuendo in every word,  punctuation mark, and space.  I would have devoured it only to have it consume me from within.

These days, I am in a more comfortable place with my writing.

And so, I have decided to frame it.

It shall bear witness to my success.  I will hang it in pride of place in my office to remind me: never proffer second rate work and never acquiesce to second rate opinion!

If my muse wills it and the fates keep smiling on my persistence, I hope to have my J K Rowling moment of denigrating those who dared snub my work.

Farming Weeds

I am driven to distraction by the ease with which weeds flourish to the detriment of all else in my vege garden.

I have lost beans, beetroot, broccoli, carrots, corn, cucumbers, leeks, lettuces, mange tout, onions, pak choy, parsnips, peas, potatoes, pumpkins, raspberries, silver beet, spinach, strawberries, tomatoes, zucchinis, and a host of herbs all to the strangling clutches of the vagrant weed.  I have even lost radishes, which is a major failure for a gardener.  Radishes tend to thrive on neglect; as long as the seeds have been sown, you can pretty much count on a crop.  Not for me.

It's not like the climate isn't suited to these plant species.  Our neighbours grow tomato plants like Californian redwoods, which are impossibly fecund with fruit.  We have friends whose backyard corn patches resemble sizable portions of Iowa.  And I continually fail to gain acceptance as a local, having never grown my own body weight in spuds.

The only edible plant that does flourish in my garden is the blackberry.  And for fifty weeks of the year they are naught but thorns, and an assortment of tennis balls, sparrows and neighbourhood kittens that strayed too near to ever fetch again.  They are the horticultural equivalent of razor wire.  And while the fruit is indescribably delicious, I always come away from a harvest looking like I've crawled across no man's land on the western front.  Consequently, I spend most of the year trying to eradicate them.

So how did our ancestors succeed in the basics of farming without being overrun with weeds?

Some theorise that the ancients tended to settle in areas that were fertile in a particular plant, where they just learned to live with its growing cycle.  Others suggest that a tribal narrative allowed them to draw conclusions about the recurrence of certain plants at favourite sojourns on their nomadic trails.  And yet others reckon a giant, black, omniscient obelisk taught them everything.

Personally, I think they must have farmed weeds.  They started off growing snozberries or something, but found their efforts continually thwarted by infestations of wheat, corn, or rice.  And so it was, lacking the sensibilities of any 19th century, middle class, fictional heroine, that they decided to lay down the foundations of civilisation on the more practical choice of fare.  The insuperable, ubiquitous weed.

Now if you will excuse me, I am off to harvest my first crop of dandelion leaves, oxalis tubers and onion weed.

Germination

Green bud splits the soil,
Straightens its back to the sun,
Unfurling its arms.

Call to Prayer

Echoes before dawn.
Warm, like a choral sunrise.
Cleansing of the soul.

Wallflower *

Sixty-eight steps
From solitude to terror;
Always anonymous.

Another lifetime
- Coffee beans, moccasins, sweet jasmine -
Like fading photos.

Interview room.
Scalding lights and searing sound.
Not one question.

Cradle of the night.
Heavy boots kick down unlocked doors,
Stamp out liberty.

Shock away thought.
Fists punctuate propaganda:
Two and two is five.

Infinity.
Forgotten sunshine or steel-capped boots:
Which hurts more?

Broken man.
Long limp down a cold, bright corridor.
Eight-nine steps.


[* Title and inspiration taken from the Peter Gabriel song of the same name.]

The Last Toilet Paper Sheet

Utility brown,
Draped like overcooked pasta.
Marooned and wanting.

Slinky

A fat, lanky spring.
Lopes, long-legged, like a clown
Down, down the back steps.

Waltz, chips, and tax

La Valse D'Amelie, by Yann Tiersen (piano piece):

• Leaves a Shiraz after taste in the mouth
• Feels like an anxious and excited heart beat
• Sounds like a breeze building to a tempest
• Envisage autumn leaves carried by the wind
• Smells clear and fresh

Chilli flavoured Kettle Chip:

• Feels like old sandpaper
• Smells of a Turkish souk
• Looks like heart of the desert
• Sounds like distant thunder
• Tastes of cooled embers

Tax return:

• Looks as indecipherable as hieroglyphs
• Feels weighty
• Smells of old shoe boxes
• Tastes stale
• Rings with a note of finality

Biography

My name is [Zig].
When I was young I had a cat,
But he played with cars and he went splat.

Then I moved on to girls.
I loved their curves, I loved their curls.
Most thought I was a churl.

All but one.

So then the kids came on and on,
And time for self was all but gone.
But time with them can be fun:
They teach me not to run
So much, and stop to feel the sun.

One day soon I'll have naught
But me and all my thoughts.
Will they be the warm sort?

Meditations on DIY

Old jokes aside about living nearby, I am not a handyman.  So when my wife started expanding on plans for a home made verandah, some three metres off the ground and fronting the house, I was a tad trepidatious.

You see, my wife grew up with a builder in the house - her father.  Want a new garage?  No problem.  Re-plumb the laundry?  Sure, ready by lunchtime.  Build an unscalable benchmark against which to measure future spouses?  Managed that one overnight.

So, understandably, she despairs at my abject lack of DIY skills.  I have no manual coordination with hammers; secateurs just confuse me; and I have no idea of the difference, if any, between a cross-cut saw and a rip-cut saw.  (I'm not even sure if that is funny; I just googled for saw names.)

I had my mind blown recently by the fact that more than half the world's population build their own home.  (I hasten to add, I plucked that figure from the ether to illustrate a large number of folk - the true number having slipped my mind - but believe me, the number was quite substantial.).  They trust the alpha male of the household to construct an actual household.  One that, presumably, can withstand vagaries of nature, time and children.

I would be lucky to dig a straight hole for the first ... post, thingy.  It would be like painting the Sydney Harbour Bridge: I'd get to one side of the house only to find the house collapsing back where I started.  This would be my Sisyphean boulder; my eternal penance for some ancient transgression - perhaps marrying into such a testosterone led family.

We will very likely rely on hired labour in the end - for the verandah.  But the whole episode will leave yet another scratch in the facade of my wife's ideal husband.  That long, cold sobering-up called marriage.