Oh my goth
Seven days in my high-rise flat with punk records, overladen bookcases, and this view of the Melbourne docks.
I tested positive for Covid yesterday. My husband too. We’re doing well with few symptoms, but need to isolate for seven days. And in that slowing down, I have more time for this blog.
The last few months have included…the unforgettable experience of seeing my first book, ‘Voice,’ on shelves in bookstores (my heart, my heart). The unavoidable disappointment of seeing the launch cancelled due to Covid, twice. Fingers crossed for a third attempt.
Teaching again at my language college after Covid took my job last year. Never thought I’d be excited to correct essays again! Falling in love with Shirley Jackson’s amazing novella ‘We Have Always Lived in the Castle’ and tracking down her other books. Having one of my literary heroes and one of Australia’s most respected writers, Helen Garner, judge me the winner of the Strange Days essay competition with my story of my beloved pet snake (confession: I squealed like a teenager when I got that phone call). Being one of the writers commissioned to take part in The Only Question project from Ulyanovsk, Russia, linking UNESCO Cities of Literature writers from all over the world.
Having two of my stories published in The Big Issue here in Australia: one on the joy of exploring foreign supermarkets and deciphering their language puzzles, the other about my goth days and the startling (only to me) realisation that I haven’t really left them. Rehearsing for the Williamstown Literary Festival with my old crew Stereo Stories, pitching for the Melbourne City of Literature project on lost libraries, and applying for another writing residency. After Iceland and Finland gave me such gold, this time I’m reaching for Sweden.
Tonight is Samhain in the Southern Hemisphere, also known as Hallowe’en. In isolation I can’t pick fresh flowers for my altar or walk by Maribyrnong River. I’m happy though with a whiskey hot toddy, an afternoon reading short stories on the couch, and an autumn sunset. Always ready for the wheel to keep turning, and see what stories the new cycle brings.
Rat of the library
I don’t know about you, but my quarantine creativity has been elusive. Even writing a monthly blog post has been a struggle. My studio is now my classroom and in all honesty, I can’t wait to leave it each day. Wherever in the world you are, I hope you’ve had more inspiration than me; that you’ve been picking up a pen, or a paintbrush, or a plectrum.
I’m relying on it.
I may not be producing art, but I am devouring it. I’ve never read so much in my life – and this is from a devoted bookworm. I even pulled out my old French and Flemish textbooks from when I lived in Brussels and was inordinately delighted to learn that ‘bookworm’ is listed as ‘rat de bibliothėque.’ ie rat of the library.
I’ve been reading feminist zines, punk lyrics, scientific explanations of phosphorescence, plague ‘cures’, German poetry, bass guitar tutorials and Solstice spells.
Birthday treats
Sylvia and champagne
Afternoon read with soup
Music brings solace too…as it always, always does. Chris Wilson blues and Betty Davis funk. I’ve been translating lyrics from Icelandic goth band Kaelan Mikla into English and howling along with them. I stumbled out of my comfort zone and straight into Schubert’s brilliant and beautiful Winterreise (winter travel) song cycle. Given that today hit only eleven degrees, it seems a perfect time to listen to songs detailing a man ‘falling asleep in snow and waking to the shrieking of ravens.’ I played it for my husband and he sighed with contentment and said ‘Sounds right up our alley.’ And then I drifted back into my comfort zone with Idles, a fierce and fabulous British punk band with excoriating and erudite lyrics tackling misogyny, toxic masculinity, consumer culture and so many more facets of our daily lives.
Melbourne blues legend Chris Wilson by artist Karyn Hughes
Ah, so I may have misled you. I did write a Stereo Story, and it sure felt good to get that pen moving.
Click here for my new Stereo Story (photo by Eric Algra)
And it sure felt good to get in the car when restrictions eased, and drive out of the city. I’ve needed green so much it made my fists clench. Last week saw my birthday, our first wedding anniversary and the Winter Solstice, so to the forest we went. Mist among the mountain ash and a Witch’s feet in soil…absolute bliss.
Kalorama misty morning
No surprises from a woman who had a Winter Solstice wedding/handfasting
There’s so much pressure to be productive. Through this pandemic I haven’t learned how to bake sour dough, or taught myself macramé, or pickling techniques for kim chi. Calmness has often been out of my reach, but kindness hasn’t, and I know which is more important.
I’m not currently producing art, but I’m sure as hell appreciating it. Soaking it in, learning from it, storing it away so that at some point, in some way, I’ll draw it out, dust it off, and write from it.
Wherever in the world you are, I hope you come up for air soon too.
Melbourne hope
Thuis (home)
When I was a troubled teen – and who wasn’t? – I was taken to a counsellor. Quite a few, actually. My all black armour, the punk anthems bellowed from my bedroom, my furious scowl and pentagram jewellery, were all causes for
concern. In many ways I was a typical teenage girl; I just didn’t know it.
One therapist wanted me to imagine my happy place, so I could transport myself there in the face of anxiety or depression. A sunny meadow; an azure beach. I chose an imaginary flat close to the Thames in London. I would be living there by myself, with the solitude and silence I already knew to relish, and needed to write. My happy place, when I closed my eyes, was envisioning myself curled up on the floor in a darkened flat, head against the window, watching the rain.
Although I was delighted to finally visit London, as a teen Goth my face was not permitted to show it.
My vision wasn’t exactly cheerful, though it was pure Goth. And it gave me great comfort, for decade after decade. Before a flight or a fight, a magazine interview or stepping on stage at literary festivals, I would close my eyes, and deep breathe as I listened to the rain against the windows.
Here’s the thing, though: London and I are no longer friends.
Earlier this month we took a honeymoon to Europe. Chris’ family all live in the UK, with a stop first in Brussels. The latter is my home away from home; I’ve lived there twice now, and adore it so much I tear up at the first whiff of cherry beer.
London used to charm me – it was the home of punk, and Doc Martens! What more could a surly teen require? This time, however, I stalked Regent Street with its gross consumerism, battled swarms of late summer tourists with their selfie sticks, and struggled to find the awe it had once triggered in me. Could this really still be my happy place? I walked down to the Thames and tried to imagine where my mythical flat would be, but narrowly missed being shat on by a pigeon and scolded by hipsters.
Trying to find London charm
Brussels was another matter. Chris fell for its ‘sleazy charm’ immediately, installing himself on our balcony with a soundtrack of Jacques Brel. We gazed in awe at Hieronymus Bosch and Bruegel paintings, and drank strong Duvel beer in an ornate Art Nouveau museum high above the cobble stones. We posed for photos in front of my old high school from my exchange year, a private Catholic girls’ school whose strict rules I’d hated with a passion, yet which now proudly flies a rainbow flag.
Cherry beer and old school Flemish
We scratched our initials into a weathered table top in a Flemish café where Brel drank, and the Belgian surrealists sketched. I brewed coffee and made pancakes in our warm and homey apartment with its red bordello walls and abundance of witchcraft symbols.
Brussels home for the week
Crepes and coffee
Belgian cat medals at the Place du Jeu de Balle flea market
We ate mussels at dusk and cherry beer for breakfast; we sat together in parks I used to write in, and with camera held high, Chris clicked the button at the same moment he felt me up. The surprise and delight on my face is a favourite souvenir.
Maison du Roi in the exquisite Grand Place
Jardin du Petit Sablon
And this, I know now, is my true happy place. I look over our week there together, showing the city I love most to the man I love most, and I try to pin it down.
And then I find it.
It was a midweek afternoon. We’d walked through the Parc de Bruxelles and had a gorgeous lunch under its trees, washed down by raspberry lemonade. We headed home when the rain began. It was light summer rain, with the air still warm, and the sunshine strong. We curled up in our comfy bed for a nap, with the tower of the Town Hall in the Great Place visible from the open window. Chris fell asleep before I did, a napper so dedicated he actually has a sleep crease etched into his forehead. His back was to me, and I reached out to stroke it. The sun caught the rubies in my wedding ring as I listened to the rain, my hand outstretched. And that was it.
With that memory, I knew I’d never need the Thames flat again.
The places our minds can retreat to when we need escape, when we need solace, are endless. The books we’ve read, the holidays we’ve had, even fantasies of the future. The trick is to recognise them when they’re in front of you, to catch them so gently you don’t break them.
Then they’re yours, whenever you need them most.
Contentment and cobblestones
inkymouth 