Tag Archives: death

After The Funeral – Micropoetry

Posted on January 23, 2014 | 1 comment

the coffin is hidden 
behind curtains
and mourners’ stories 
pour like libations
I must remember 
to put the bins out tonight

 

I am not normally one to analyse or give background to my own poetry, rather, letting the reader engage with the text and draw her/his own conclusions. However, this poem requires some background lest I am thought to be callous.

Today was the funeral of my maternal grandfather, B. D. Paull, aged 92.

I was asked to give a brief eulogy on behalf of the grandchildren, so I wrote it and prepared to deliver it. I lasted only a line and a half before I cracked and didn’t get much further than the end of the first paragraph. My brother came to my rescue and helped read it (I loathe public speaking; I prefer writing the words to delivering them). 

I mean no disrespect. I believe I honoured and respected my late grandfather in the eulogy.

What struck me today was the “normalcy” that the remainder of the day required. As a congregation we shared a meal after the service, told each other stories, came home and dealt with the daily tasks. And yes, tonight is bin night in my neighbourhood.

Death is an ending, a cycle of life we have become detached from, much like the birthing process. We see it, and experience it, but are removed from it. 

I honour my grandfather and cherish the memories I have of him, and respect the physical objects of his in my possession: his signet ring and hat. I will mourn and grieve and go about my daily chores. But I will never forget.

Vale.

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Posted in Ars Poetica

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Birth and Death in Creativity

Posted on June 27, 2013 | 1 comment

Creativity is a birthing act. Its genesis lies in the conception of an idea and by a word it is spoken into being. 

It begins as a formless void. It is given shape and form through contemplation and meditation.

Once it takes shape it is subjected to the process of revision and refinement. The form is given definition, perspective, depth and clarity.

Yet some ideas do not germinate; they die in the ground or spark brightly only to last a brief while. Others grow and develop but their death is unexpected, brutal, surprising, or nurtured and cared for until the last breath.

There is a period of mourning as the elements reclaim what was but is no now longer.

Even in the midst of a death or dying, life is extolled and remembered in and through death, sharing humanity.

In the act of creating we experience a little death.

And in the end we see that it is good.

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Resurrection – When To Shut Down a Creative Life (And When To Resurrect It)

Posted on December 30, 2012 | 7 comments

Welcome to Part 2 of Reflection, Resurrection and Recreation.

Friday’s post, Reflection, asked why we gave up a creative life and encouraged us to live creatively again.

Part 2 is about death: the need to shut down a creative life, and resurrection: when it take it up again.

As creative people, the idea of shutting down our creative life is akin to hacking a limb off or stopping breathing. While it might appear to be the opposite thing to do, it may in fact be apposite.

Every so often you need to evaluate your creative life, check the map for where you are compared to where you are headed and work out whether you are lost in the Pit of Despair or frolicking in the ball pit at Ikea.

If your creativity is not in the place you want it to be, you need some serious self-reflection.

Do you need to shut down your creative life?

Ask yourself the following questions:

Have You Lost the Passion?

Being creative is hard work. Every creative person will proclaim it loudly from the toilet cubicle (better resonance). We enjoy being creative because we are passionate about it. The passion drives us to continue, to persevere, to work through the tough periods. There is great joy in creating.

But without passion, you are continually giving of yourself and not feeding your own needs. There is more going out than what is coming in. The reasons for the lack of passion are numerous, both internal and external; you will know what has taken away your love for creativity.

Without passion, your creative work will suck you dry and spit out your withered carcass.

To find your passion again, shut down your creative life.

Are You Grieving A Loss?

The loss of a creative project or the completion of something you have invested yourself heavily into can be like a death in the family.

You have to grieve what you have lost; remember what you have accomplished and celebrate the achievements.

It is natural to grieve after a loss. In order to deal with the grief and loss, shut down your creative life.

Does Your Work Suck?

This is tricky. If you are not developing and improving in your chosen creative field, you have to ask someone to objectively and critically evaluate your work. You need to ask the hard question, “Does my work suck?”

If the overwhelming consensus is your work sucks, you have two choices. Firstly, improve your skills. Enrol in a course, find a mentor, workshop your project, seek advice. Or secondly, shut it down. Focus your creative energies elsewhere if what you are doing is truly not what you want to do. Experiment with a few areas to see where your skills are best suited.

Have You Moved Away From Your Core Values?

It can be too easy to seek out the latest trend, jump aboard the bandwagon and ride shotgun. All the while you are moving further away from your original intentions and purpose.

Are you in the wrong creative field?

Are you writing short stories when you should be producing short films?

Are you painting when you should be writing?

Who are you and what do you want to be doing?

Are you doing it?

Why not?

There is nothing wrong with diversifying and experimenting, trying out new creative mediums, but if it takes you away from the core of who you are and what you do, it is time to shut it down.

Has Your Creative Life Crossed Boundaries?

Creative people can be obsessive and focused or ethereal and unreliable as they pursue a creative life. If your creativity is taking over your life and interfering with relationships, if it is taking away from family and friends, it may be time to shut it down.

Creativity involves a sacrifice of time and effort, but not at the expense of you being a selfish pillock. Communicate what you want, negotiate the boundaries so that all involved have a clear understanding of what is required. It may require the drawing up of an agreement, stuck to the fridge as a constant reminder of each person’s responsibilities.

Focus and dedication are important to the life of a creative individual, but if it crosses boundaries, shut it down.

Has The Well Run Dry?

Creative people speak of the “well of ideas,” a place to draw inspiration. Reading a book, watching a movie, visiting art galleries or taking a walk with the rabbit on a leash can fill the well of ideas. A project needs time to develop, consciously, unconsciously and subconsciously. Ideas generate ideas.

Sometimes the creative well is dry because the plug has been pulled out. The draining of ideas may have its source in a range of things: your own emotional state, external situations and circumstances, demands and pressures on your time, or relationships.

You need to refill the well by putting the plug back in and letting it refill in its own time from a trickle to a torrent. Feed yourself on good things like art and music, books and films. Fall in love with simple pleasures again. Leave the tools on your desk and have no regrets in leaving them alone.

If you are dry, shut down your creative life.

Death and Resurrection

But how long should your creative life be shut down?

If you shut down your creative life, will it be resurrected?

Will it become a derelict building, boarded up, dilapidated, falling into ruin and fit for demolition? The shutting down of a creative life may be an individual’s choice or the result of external circumstances and situations, or a combination of both. Some may choose to leave the creative life altogether and never return. This is a shame because I believe creativity should be a part of everyone’s life.

If the shutting down is a voluntary choice, you are giving yourself permission to step aside from a creative life. When you make that decision, embrace it. Grieve your loss and mourn the death.

Set a period of time for your creative life to be dormant: days, weeks, months, or even years.

During that time clear your space; throw out what is not needed; purge the unwanted and irrelevant.

Then set a specific date to resurrect your creative life.

Focus on a project; set achievable goals. Have a project ready to pick up and finish or a project to start afresh.

The creative life is one that is inherently a part of you and brings benefit, but you need to return to the thing you fell in love with. It’s like a relationship: you have to work at it.

Grieve when you need to grieve. Always find ways to improve your work. Reclaim what you are passionate about and establish the core values of who you are. Establish the boundaries of your creative life and keep the well full of ideas.

Only then will you live a creative life to the full.

Do you need to shut down your creative life and resurrect it?

* this is an edited version of a post that originally appeared at Write Anything.

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Posted in Creativity, The Writer's Life

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The Art of Blowing Bubbles

Posted on October 15, 2010 | 33 comments

Funerals in the movies tend to have rain in them as a metaphor of grief and sorrow.  At Nanna’s funeral, the day was just, well, a nice spring day.  My brother and sister stood beside me in the front row; our mother and her sister sharing tissues and sorrow.

I’ve come to think of memory as a photo album.  You know those little rectangular ones where you can flip through a hundred or so photos.  In my version I see my Nanna, the high coiffed hair held together by a film of hairspray.  I’m surprised her cigarettes didn’t set her hair alight with all that product.

You hold onto the little things about someone, whether it’s an event, a situation or a scent.  For me, it was something she said.

“You can never blow bubbles when you are angry,” my grandmother intoned. The word changed depending on the situation: sad or scared or upset, but the intent was always the same.

At the know-it-all age of five and full of boyish exuberance, I was trying to blow bubbles through a home made loop of wire dipped into bright pink dish washing-up detergent.

“This stuff is far better than any of that store-bought rubbish,” was her standard refrain.  And I must admit that even to this day I still swear by the bright pink sticky liquid.  It made awesome bubbles.

Try as I might, I could not get the bubbles to form a consistent stream like my grandmother made.  The more I tried, the less successful I was and the frustrations of a young child verged on tearful.  Nanna calmly took the loop of wire from my hand and dipped it.  She raised it to her lips and I watched the quiet exhalation of breath.  The bubbles streamed away, caught by the breeze.

“Slowly and carefully,” she instructed.

I dipped the loop and drew it towards my mouth.  The frustration was simmering but I paused while I took a deep breath.  With controlled focus I released the captured air and it raced towards the skin of detergent.  It bulged and suddenly burst.

“Try again,” was her reassurance.  It was hard to be calm when all you wanted to do was hurl the wretched thing across the yard.  The second attempt proved as futile.

“Slowly and consistently,” she repeated.

On the third try a small stream of bubbles stuttered then stopped.

“There you are.  That’s it.”

Reassured I tried again and watched the swirl of bubbles get pushed along by the wind.  We laughed trying to fill the air with as many bubbles as we could.  Little spheres popped noiselessly.

It became her sage advice for every occasion, should something go wrong.  She kept a bottle of solution and a wand on the kitchen windowsill.  Sometimes it was better than any headache tablet or cough medicine.

Nanna’s coffin slid through the curtain to the crematorium.   My father led my mother by the arm outside the chapel.  The mourners congregated in sombre two’s and three’s.  I stood aside in the shade of the alcove.  From my jacket pocket I removed a small plastic bottle of bright pink washing up liquid and a loop of wire.  A libation in honour of the dead.

Grief disrupted the rhythm of my breathing. A short, sharp inhalation held to stem the tears.  I drew the wand to my lips then methodically, deliberately exhaled. A steady stream of bubbles rushed forward settling in the hands of the breeze.  I watched them rise and dance, fade and disappear.

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Posted in Short Stories

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Shadows and Memories

Posted on June 11, 2010 | 12 comments

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #159 for June 11th, 2010

Include this in your story: “I wish he’d knock on my door instead……..”

Hazel shuffled back into her solitary room, smoothing the crocheted blanket at the foot of her bed before picking the wilted heads off the flowers in the vase on the sill.  She picked up the dog eared deck of cards and laid out a hand of Solitaire.  The afternoon sun slanted across the melamine table and arthritic knuckles towards the clock on the wall.

Jason the orderly knocked four times quickly on the door before wheeling in the trolley for afternoon tea.

“Good afternoon Mrs Pendlebury.  My last stop for the day.  Would you like your usual?”

“Yes, thank you, Jason.  And do you have any of those Anzac biscuits?”

“I keep a stash just for you.”

Jason began pouring her tea and laying out the biscuits with hands that looked little more than skin and bones.

“Why do you wear that necklace?” she asked, indicating the label “Death” hanging on a silver chain.
Jason laughed to himself, “It’s the name of my favourite heavy metal band, Mrs Pendlebury.”

“It’s a little morbid, don’t you think?”

“Maybe, but I don’t let Mr Jenkins in 403 see it.  He hates being reminded of his mortality.”

“For someone so young, you have eyes that are quite deep.  What keeps you here?”

“Vampires need somewhere easy to get a fresh supply and a nursing home is just the place,” he joked.  “But I’ve seen you reading Twilight.  I kinda figured you were more of a Barbara Cartland or Danielle Steele kind of person.”

“You should have seen my Wilbur Smith and Alistair McLean collections,” said Hazel.

“See you tomorrow, Mrs Pendlebury.”

Jason exited the room and the sounds of the frail and aged became a chorus in the linoleum corridor; the voice of ghosts creeping around the doors.  The smell of disinfectant overpowered any sense of hope.  It seemed that Death wandered the corridors, knocking on the doors of the dearly departing.  Hazel checked her watch before dealing another hand.

The next afternoon after the same four sharp raps on the door, Jason prompted Hazel with a question as she sat with her back to the door, staring out the window,

“What are you thinking about, Mrs Pendlebury?”

“I was thinking about my husband, Charles.  You remember moments.  It’s a bit like a photograph, capturing a distilled emotion.  Something that gives you clarity.  Like when Charles kissed me on our wedding day after the priest had announced us as man and wife.  And I felt the little tickle of hair on the edge of his lip where he had missed shaving that morning.  During our vows Charles was so nervous that he forgot to say ‘Until death do us part,’” chuckled Hazel.  A shadow passed over her voice.

“Or the feeling of holding his hand after the birth of our first child who was stillborn.  It was like feeling solid rock in my own grief, but I knew his heart was as broken as mine.

“Charles has been gone now for near on twenty years.  You don’t spend fifty years of your life with someone and then become accustomed to living alone.  After a while, the loneliness begins to creep into your bones.

“I wish Death would come and knock on my door instead,” she said to herself.  “It would be a welcome relief.  Do you believe Death comes and takes you when you die?”

“No,” said Jason, “I think people forget that bodies age and eventually just stop.  Then Death is simply there to help to wherever they are going,” said Jason.  “It just helps people to anthropomorphise their fears.  Or should be that they personify their fears?  I was never good at poetry.”

Hazel giggled like a little girl again.  “I’m sorry that you have to listen to an old woman prattle on.”

“That’s alright, Mrs Pendlebury.  I’ll see you again soon.”

Jason looked back at Hazel.  She sat motionless, staring out the window while the steam from her cup of tea dissipated into the fading afternoon twilight.

That evening Hazel readied herself for bed, putting away her brush and reading glasses after making sure she read the last page of the novel.  She settled under the covers, drawing them up to her chin, letting her breath settle into a steady pattern.  In the early hours of the morning the sound of breathing ceased; the ghosts of the corridor whispering their lament.

Hazel stood and looked at the prone shell of her body lying on the bed before her.  There was a quiet four knocks on the door jamb.  She turned and saw Jason, dressed in a dark suit, waistcoat and pocket watch.

She stated the obvious, “I’m dead, aren’t I?  And you’re Death.  And that necklace is just a little ironic isn’t it?”

Jason smiled but bowed his head in deference to the deceased, “Yes.”

Hazel was a little perplexed, “But where is the skeleton and scythe and the black robes?”

“I come in many guises, mostly to make things easier for people.  Appearing as a skeleton tends to work only for horror freaks and weirdos, but they like the personal touch.  Now, I believe that we have a journey to take.  May I please have your arm?”

“Thank you.  Lead the way.”

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Posted in Short Stories

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