Happy to be sad

I had become wary of building my writerly career online, because of a sense of the ephemerality of the online world - load shedding in South Africa is a reminder of the tenuousness of electrical power; during the 'dark hours' (which can happen at any time during the day) one is obliged to turn to the tangible world for activities, duties and amusement, and there is much reassurance to be derived from going for a walk or taking a rest, because there is simply nothing else to do at a particular moment. Of course, there are always dishes; and perhaps one browses through a forgotten book and finds phrases and fragrances beyond the reach of the internet.

The second, more complex, reason I sidelined the supposed career, which I was building in my imagination, is that my elderly parents became increasingly needy, and I simultaneously said yes to a new love relationship. I was thus obliged to choose between paying attention to my 'career' or to real human beings and it seemed unethical to prioritise the former, as it is a vanity, while my parents, and my beloved, are irrefutable.

And so I neglected my online writerly presence and productivity. The decision to do so has lost me much energy, as there is little that refuels my soul as effectively as when I release my poetry and feminine philosophy into the unknown currents that run the worldwide web. It turns out that supervising my parents' combined wilting as compassionately as possible saps my life force in the extreme. Not infrequently, I have felt the need to die in advance of them, in order to show the way - a mood, which it would shock them to know I experience, if they had the presence of mind to know it, which is a presence they do not, fortunately however, have. 

I have been in shock, though, for the past three years - ever since leaving Hogsback, arriving on the Garden Route and covid lockdown slamming the brakes on any forward movement. I have, I realise, lived in a state of shame about the unutterable sadness of my life. A shame, which, on learning that I am once more forced to move house - the third move in three years - has suddenly left me, and lifted me up, this spring, to the joys of complaining unrestrainedly. I am pushed beyond endurance! Praise be to complaint! And praise be to my beloved, who endures it, and you, my reader, if you are here. I need no comfort other than to utter what saps and uses my loving, giving heart beyond her limits.

So it could be that complaining may yet help me to prevail. Thus, this blogpost is a preliminary blub and my online writerly presence resumes in a spirit of watery melancholy. 

In short, I am happy to be sad.

Valentinian reflections and some extreme declarations

From 2011 until 2019, Valentine's Days were quite a bit of work for me - during those years, I published books of love poems every Valentine's Day. All but two of those were co-authored by my late poet-husband, Norman Morrissey. We used to read antiphonally on each occasion, launching the books by way of a romantic event for poetry-loving fans - as per the images below.

Our love poem combo show in 2011

Our first love poems in dialogue, 2012

Love poem book no.2, 2013

2014

2015

Love poems with a difference, 2016

The last book of love poems we published during Norman's lifetime. 2017

A dialogue of love poems published after Norman's death. 2018

2019

Last year on this day, I collected the print stock of Sweet Nothings (with Notebook) - my tribute of poems to High Riding, the property I had lived on and grown to love during my Hogsback years. My Beloved encouraged me to take this photo to commemorate the moment and how glad I am that he did so - 

Celebrating the collection of stock. 14th February 2020

Now, finally, it is time to reflect on all this Valentinian bustle. (Incidentally, the name 'Valentine' derives from the Roman word valens, meaning strong and healthy.)

The figure of a Beloved has always been a priority in my life. The relationship with a Beloved is the very sun, around which (at least for me) all other relations are constellated. It is the source and centre of warmth and light, without which my heart withers.

By no means do such extreme declarations diminish the love I feel for my son, my parents, sisters, extended family, circle of dear friends and fellows, teachers, pupils, readers, writers, and in general my kindred spirits, who light up the entire globe with their irreplaceable souls.

On the contrary. A Beloved allows for a bubble of peace that is beautifully broken, if not by bliss, then by the most valuable work there is: the work of consciously and fully getting to know an other and, therefore, one's own, expanded self. Speaking for myself, there is no greater possibility of migrating properly beyond the dreadful limits of selfhood than through the consummation of a relationship with a true Beloved.

Why is this? Could it be that here, as in friendships, I find equality, balance of power? As in parent-child relationships, I find nurturing, safekeeping, learning? As in teacher-pupil and work relationships, I find respect, patience, discipline? As in sibling relationships, I find play, laughter, forgiveness? 

Yes, the relationship with a Beloved lends all those possibilities. But also - and this is perhaps the ultimate card - I find utter vulnerability, both ways: a vulnerability that is inaccessible, but in the relationship with a Beloved.

The mutual vulnerability of true lovers in respect of one another has held (at least in my case) enormous potential for unlimited expansion into my best self. (Of course, there is constant and real risk of the opposite happening!)

I've built a 'career' of sorts with my poems and writing. But, under that 'career' is a foundation and that foundation is the beauty of the Beloved as it shines for me inside my heart. Maybe you could say my Beloved gets closest to the mercy and grace of Christ in my heart; thus, also, to my creative life force.

Neither my poems nor my love have gained me a sustainable income (at least, not directly so). But they have won me this humble platform, this provisional confidence and this uncompromising desire: to tell you what I've won.

May you, likewise, trust yourself to pursue that, which you love to do, according to the love relationships YOU are best wired to joy in.

My old elephant bod with my old peace rose, back in 2011. (They are both still alive and happy. The rose is busy on her 10th bud this season!)

 

   

"Without you, this book would not be"

The stretch between writing, publicly reading and launching a book is extensive. It mirrors the very differing states of being pregnant, talking about being pregnant, and actually giving birth.

And then.
Then there is the advertising, the marketing, the work of selling your book. This mirrors breastfeeding, burping, nappy-changing and generally doing all those things that your darling needs, in order to keep thriving.

If you had known exactly what was coming at you, you might not have chosen this route. Well, I should probably rather change that sentence into the first person. I might not have chosen this route.

But I had an ulterior motive: I badly wanted this baby. I wanted a beautiful, fat Heffalump. Did I know she would start walking the moment she was out? No.

Well - it has been a steep learning curve, giving birth to a herbivore: they really do stand on their own legs immediately. I have held for dear life onto her tail, as she has galumphed happily into the world, reminding me that I am merely human, while she ... is of another order altogether.

It's a beautiful thing. My wildest expectations have been exceeded. The Hogsback launch could not have gone better, my reading in Grahamstown was well-received, and next week there will be a launch at Exclusive Books in Cape Town.

However, the dramatic increase in social buzz, organising, online communications, meeting lovely people, autographing with special messages - all this boon has robbed me of sleep and of peace even during the daytime, as my mind sprints through the to-do list and my neglected creative soul sits and sulks.

Busyness has caused me to re-tick the boxes with my basic priorities: SOLITUDE, QUIET, DOMESTIC BLISS, LOVE/ INTIMACY, PERSONAL FREEDOM.

That is all very well. Yet I am responsible for my Heffalump, and I am responsible to the good people listening, reading, buying her.

So I have no choice but to balance the responsibilities, patiently and wisely.

As Walter Benjamin said, the work of art gives birth to the artist, who must reinvent herself.

And Norman? Where are you in all of this? You, whose face is represented now in the homes of all who've got the book, and whose spirit and quirks and moments with me are being perused and pondered?

Why do these questions bring a strange peace into me?

Something has been fulfilled that was waiting. It has all been worth it. Like Strandloop, which you inscribed for me as something that you could not have put together without me, Greater Matter could and would not be without you.

Norman's inscription in my copy of Strandloop

Roots and risks - Reflections on my book

It exists and feels beautiful. Soft and lovable, perfect to take to bed, to the beach, to curl up or stretch out with. A sensual, sensitive body, just longing for touch.

A book is a happy thing when it has such a body.

But a body is a costly thing, and a book's body no less so. I have risked much in order to give birth to this body, this heffalump, this, in all, 319-page story consisting in a total of 236 poems.

All my hard calculations show clearly that I am losing - materially speaking, that is. How much I am prepared, indeed, able to lose in this gamble? What am I gambling, actually?

Am I enjoying the process?
Yes. I am enjoying the process of taking the risks I am taking. I no longer fear or hope. I am simply, fully inside the process, this path I have chosen.

The path is more uphill than I expected, but that is the nature of paths. When I get to the 'top', what will I see or discover? I do not know. And that is why I am doing it. It's my duty to life, to God, to myself, to the time I have in this body I have borrowed from the elements.

What am I risking?
I am risking losing my fear of being read and judged: this has already happened and is deeply rewarding, and also interesting.
I am risking fulfilling a longing: this, too, has already happened and is lovely, liberating.
Yes, there is the risk of material loss, but such loss will not ruin me any more than I have been ruined in the past.

The advantage of a past like mine is that it has reduced me to a hard pip filled with arsenic: like an almond or an apple seed.

Am I fooling myself? What is the worst that could happen?

The worst would be if I lost touch with the divine spark, with God, with the simple things, with my beloved, with my love. And I daily take huge care that this does not happen, because those things are the foundation of my life. It is in those things that my book is rooted. Including its body.

A quilt no one has seen

No why ever

Blue cranes -
snow-threaded mountains -
kites hunting, and
a sky - haired and studded with cloud -

blurred, but finding
water's shapelinesses combing through
my human thoughts
to hold

the crystal of a landscape never broken,
and no why? ever spoken.