Nightwriting

May 25th, 2008

Before three bodies are torn down

I am emptied from raising up and screwing together poems, ’tis true, my mind is fragile and temperamental and The Sydney Writers’ Festival was work and winks of relaxation whilst swallowing bubbled water against the Pier’s sparkled waves.

Until Nightwriting I had transported poems in pockets, bags, heart and envelopes. I’d known a poem’s physical to weight like a leaf, a feather, a pip, regardless of content. Yet for the last five days we have installed, axed, fixed, welded, moulded and dressed three poems or poem-pods, each one a wood extension of a poem by three poets.

The installation launched on Thursday night fronted by the silvery polo neck jacekted Jacob Polley who delivered a hypnotic and unexpectedly sensual minislec about poetry and night. (This minislec will be on line soon as a video and later, audio and text available). The audience held their breaths and it the shadows owned the space, the room heaved with bodies I have little doubt were wood spirits from the wool shed of past centuries.

Not wanting to mention money or door takings – but, we had to charge $10 to cover the space hire for this event. Of course we offered comps to those who couldn’t afford $10 and then we waited to see if the public would bite and buy their own entry for $10. With a crowd of about 160, I’d estimate half bought tickets the others used our comps. As many in the poetry pages know, individuals have no problem paying $10 for a theatre, music or dance event , a hair cut, petrol or sandwich, but paying for poetry is an anathema. And I know, those who fund Red Room will continue to ask why don’t you charge stacks of cash for your events and projects – but it simply turns people, future readers and writers, away.

Tomorrow morning we truck to bump-out and yes, the event and installation whilst in the studio throughout the festival, reached a massive audience, I am left wondering what everyone thought, I saw bodies stand in our poem-pods but couldn’t read their thoughts and detest the concept of interrupting an experience in order to get ‘stats’ such as post code and out of ten enjoyment levels.

So, hundreds of heads who have experienced these poems flow back to work on Monday, a little different in how they think of a poem, a highway, a nocturne or Pin striped suits. Or not?

May 23rd, 2008

19 May 2008 9:47:54 PM – Recording to stars

Mike was recorded in early after lunch light a moon sickle seen behind the clouds but not yet Night Writing. The darkness I’d experienced had been when I tipped over the spare seats next to me, on the plane, and slept the way from Sydney to Adelaide. Esther will be recorded in pitch black in Tasmania. This evening it was half dark when I called to Lachlan across the round about as he hurried towards our studio with an erudite gaze into The Flame Tree,

Soon we were in studio, talking while the mikes were being tested and told what to do, about boats, poem wave, how treasures are buried beneath not so often on top. Thursday’s live event is one, two, three sleeps away but

I hold my tongue from describing about the beauty of our N installation that I and my Friend, saw for the first time, yesterday afternoon in Camilla’s back yard; under moon light Camilla crouched, painted and wove materials around a wood husk that was the body of Lachlan’s poem. In the far end of her yard another poem body was drying off varnish and signs of Esther (blue plaits) hung from the nose tip. As I tip toed around metal pots, plant necks and paint daubs, Camilla’s friend carved and twisted wood that is to hold the Braille poems and suspended from for spidery legs were arms of Mike Ladd.

All these objects being nailed, scaled and sawn together to make a place for the audience to experience Nightwriting. A perfect Sunday treat, to be reminded by Camilla that a poem is made and re made with each read and in each position. I still am ruminating on, the frenzy of ideas that swell only when lights are of the shadow of a moon. In night, writing, walking, holding, allows eyes to see, you see the most beautiful things or most horrific things, depending on who is standing next to you, lit, light, alive to the person in the moon.

May 10th, 2008

Mike Ladd and the Adelaide mynah bird.

Howie’s Reserve in Adelaide was where I unwrapped my wrap and opened by Mac and listened to Rhapsody in Port Moresby by Mike Ladd. A Mynah bird in chimney soot grey waistcoat lands its strong, sturdy feet on the grass. Not common or invasive but much needed friendship in a foreign town. As Mike’s poem read into the Reserve atmosphere the bird’s ear slits perked towards the computer speakers. The bird was keen for poetry at lunchtime. The two of us eating lunch in the middle of what seemed like nowhere, anywhere and everywhere. Yes, there was a curious discomfort and being surrounded by loping gums and stream trickles and unable to resist technology’s company, this fine day, last Wednesday.

Weaving, almost strangling myself with my lap-top strap, up the streets, past tip-top houses until that familiar ABC phantom granite building site came into sight. I waited for a while at reception, with B1 and B2 in the ABC studios until the silly woman at the front desk told me to wait my turn until designated time of arrival (2:30). This meant erasing away an hour hanging about in ABC space whilst Mike was somewhere, floors above, waiting for me.

As expected, when the desk lady finally called Mike he was miffed at not having been summoned earlier – we could have lunched, laughed, poemed away the afternoon. Instead we recorded and chatted in two hours and no more, but two involved, profound hours where talk started with death on the road, to erotica in childhood and finally closed with eating a square of dolphin friendly chocolate. This encounter, days ago.

Since then, lives built, unbuilt and a proud bunch of Hyacinth on the home table, bulbous herbs being both lily and baby’s breath and a thick reedy leaf vibrates with each key tap, shuddering to think I’m looking at this white screen when the petal whites are water, snow and spring in interrupting what the weather claims is Autumn.

April 19th, 2008

News in bibs and blue overalls

Friday night and I was contemplating stars in Braille, waiting for my friends at the Lord Dudley pub. I was fetched from the upstairs, taken to the downstairs, where three delightful humans and I discussed pigeons, privacy and piracy. Two of my table companions ate brains for dinner. I ate fish and scalps (also known as ‘scallops’ but always pronounced after a sip of red wine as ‘scalps’ and thus sharing my fellow diners craving for thoughts). Scallops taste strange because each mouthful and you feel they’re in the moment of swapping from male to female, being hermaphroditic and shyness encased in rough.

As we playfully debated microphone techniques and the ethics of buying second hand books I contemplated what my own brain would taste like? If a brain, being fuller when older, would taste more succulent and spiced in the future than a younger brain, less experienced in sucking up life. I decide yes, that I should wait until then (the future) to fork the core of my ideas and identity and only when I’m sure of it, will I swallow myself well, digest my mind wholly.

Following the fairy-star lit dinner we left by the front door to the car door, me almost being crushed by the pub crowd of men who were so large muscled I can’t imagine how they’d fit on a rugby field, let alone stand knuckled to knuckle on dainty Paddington foot path.
Sky rained atop the car. Four brains driven to a secret plant on the out pantaloons of Sydney.

By this time, it was half past 7 time, then 8:30PM and we were surrounded by thick leaves and scrub a blue glowing glass fronted factory pressed, punched, printed and powered into the night, into the morning, to your fingertips.

At Sydney Morning Herald printing plant ..

I discovered a series of black and white photographs, one in particular printed into my memory gallery – that of Bogle-Chandler case on the banks of Lane Cover River. The photograph depicted inspectors and others crouching about a nettle and twig nest, in search of bodies that were never to turn up.

The tour of the printing plant of course had my mind thinking about the publication of poems in national newspapers but more so, about the font and typography of imagination and lies. A day earlier I was an audience member for the launch of my cousin’s story book album ‘Death’, pondering a similar thought – what would be the final poem or last letter I ever write be and to whom would I write it?

I’m farewell this sentence to go write a poem or, if a bad poem, then a glorified list of words that mean more than they seem.

April 3rd, 2008

Take up my challenge

napgal_fronvyngnap.jpgInto the midriff of a night I’ve been Red Room rocketing. Corridors, kitchens and lecture halls of the University all to my two armed, two legged, two eyed, two eared self. It’s only after 7PM that the University loses Other people and so I commune with the personalities who upspring from my lap top and when I’m imaginatively whacked the light bulbs and carpet are included in my night time talk fest as having souls with which I can communicate using a range of sense.

Excluding an Arts Law Panel with Jill Jones (details next blog & removing the ‘J’ turns this poet into Ill Ones!), the recent trio of nights have been Operation Nightwriting . At last, today in the shivery morning sun, all poets for this project are confirmed. Nightwriting plays with codes and senses and so here are the initials of our three poets : E.O, D.P and L.B. The international poet we have engaged for the MINISLEC is J.P. Anyone who guesses all four names will win a thumb print.

If you want to place your guess, do so by shutting your eyes and whispering your answer into a key hole closest to you. Your answer will reach The Red Room within 24 hours.

March 29th, 2008

Daddy long legs in bed

HALL-Fiona---Medicine-bundl.jpgOutside, garden tables have joined together, a neighbour hosts a banquet laughs that have brassed up as the sun brasses down. A light bowl holds a candle and flickers peach across my wall, in preparation for Earth Hour. Reports today moan that lights off does nothing for the environment, but what a limited definition of environment they must think within; the importance of your community all joining flames at the same time for the same purpose has endless benefits.

What a freedom that today I am not limited by how I feel. I felt like bed-blogging and Bed Red Room-ing from my bed and I am.

Today has been me in a joyously feral state. I had a Happy Birthday lunch with mother then spent hours travelling in and around pockets of my home. The Daddy Long legs are taking over the lounge room corners, so I violently thwacked my walls with tea towels until the spiders all fell down. My walls! I repeated to their length. I wonder if their insect eyes saw who their attacker was and, in revenge, will cobweb me as I sleep too soundly of a night in the near future?

Reversing the memory wheels to Thursday this week (voooo wheeeat!!), I was walking around the Quay water, to meet Annette, part of the exuberant team at The Sydney Writers’ Festival. (Still, a year later, no sign of my pearl, red coral, gold necklace the wind stole). Each time I chat with Annette she reveals a wonder; last talk it was her fluency in Sanskrit, this meet – her explanation for my feeling of peace I’d found walking by the water : Peace, Annette offered, because I am surrounded by water, embraced by a substance profound, endless, beautiful and waiting on and for me.

At the festival, Annette and I were scouting for a new installation space for Nightwriting. The one we’d hope on is riddled with Health and Safety issues. While I go wild with happiness at things which involve risk, un-certainity and possible failure, it seems councils support only safe, dependable and harmless projects; three qualities the antithesis of poetry, creativity. Lucky for Red Room, Annette mediates and moulds a space for us within the prison of local, social rules.

[Incidentally, we are looking for a set designer to work on this project].

Having found our space, in the Bangarra Studio, I had an hour to spare before meeting Mr and Ms Cassidy to discuss Pigeon Poetry and our media launch, planned for April 14th. So, I immersed into the surrealist sardine cans and Coca-Cola baby clothes, created by Fiona Hall.

Leaving but soon to return to the MCA I noticed an elegantly dressed woman in her seventies looking for a way to somewhere, but unable to find it. Instead the woman had forgotten how to reach the doors of the museum. As I guided her under the sticky sun, she claimed she was lost because she was old and being lost is a constant preoccupation with old people and because she’d drunk too much wine at a lunch with Australia’s Governor General.