linseed

I have no emotional energy for him right now. He needs something from me. He needs me to keep him moving forward by slow increments. He needs me to put him in the world and he is resisting me at every turn. He wants me to find a time when it will just be him and me in a house at the beach where I can find his voice and I will do this sometime, but I have no time for it now. I get nothing back. I need input. I need to be filled up with all of the emotions that have washed pale in me. I cling to the last little scrap of passion but even this may be taken. I can't read. I long for images. I flick through big thick books with glossy prints but I want the smell of oil paint. I want the taste of linseed oil on my fingers. After this thing called christmas I will clear a small corner of my head for this book, but until then I will paint.

with his one hand

with his one hand Evan can turn the wheel, adjust it just a little at a time, negotiating the highways almost imperceptable curve to the right. His body remembers this. Open road, the easy lean back in the drivers seat. The sound of the radio turned down too low to hear anything but a rattle of distant voices. Pared back. That is what he likes about driving, this cut down to nothing but a road and a view that changes just to keep things interesting, and the clamour of this thoughts relaxing into the room that the open road has made for them.

There is a pedal fitted to the accelerator that makes it just a small stretch for the break. He tests it now, bunny-hopping a little and the thing works fine. He is safe. Or not. It makes no difference. He might have died and that was fine. He is alive and that is fine too. He turns the radio up, letting the wheel slip free, feeling the car drag slightly towards the shoulder as he does so. There is a roar of laughter and a chatter of voices, too muddled together for him to untangle one from another. It barely matters. They are happy, they are laughing, everything is fine.

always time for art

so if I have no head space for words I will always have time for art. These pictures leaped out of the internet and shouted to become useful to my brain book. Here's what they wordlessly say to me...

when will I get time for this blog?

2009 is looking better...

Poetry

Christopher suggested a course in poetry and suddenly it made sense to me. It didn't make sense because I wanted to write poetry. It made sense because of all the novellists I love how have honed their skills using poetry. I suggested that we three, the band of K/Chris's pool our resources and get someone to give us a short course. Or we could join on-line and meet together for beer and to discuss it.

I don't read poetry, but when CC suggested the idea he said "I want to know when to press the return button," and suddenly it made sense. I want to learn to pare my sentenses back to bare bones. I want to know how to contain all the emotive potential in a scatter of words. Imagine if my brain book could be simple but poetic.

Maybe I will just read poetry as a side project. Maybe we will still meet for beers, Chris Chris and Kris and discuss the construction of the things. I must suggest it.

In the meantime, Christmas in Retail Land is seriously cramping my writing style.

structure

a little exercise in structure.

I am going to cook my boy a lovely dinner tonight, and as he is the queen of structure, I am going to use the tool at hand and get him to talk it all through with me. I will take notes. I will get scenes mapped out and at the end of it all I will be a little closer, because I have no focus at the moment and it all blurs into the same thing and I am writing myself into a tight little circle.

All this tonight in exhange for a meal.

a little each day

Just a little each day. This was the plan and so here I am thinking about the brain for a stolen moment. I am thinking about a scene where he endures some theatre/art/workshop day with a facilitator in her early twenties talking to everyone as if they are so excited to be involved in a group process with other brain damaged participants. I see him watching the speechless people straining past their paralyzed cheeks, drooling onto their best shirts, dragging their dead legs through a getting to know you game. I see him starting with the best intentions and then moving from disabled shakespere to his driving lesson. I see him driving and driving and seeing a sign leading him out of Brisbane. He ignores his instructors suggestion to turn back. He drives on. He wants to drive forever. He is not coming back. He decides that he will go.