This week I’m heading off in my little white camper van for three months. North, then further north, then even further north, seeking the warmth of the tropics in winter.
Yesterday I bought a mobile phone holder to stick in the van (for map-reading) and these are the instructions for putting it together:
a: First about to A green colour part insert lead plane.
b: A second about to B plate the base down a windshield.
c: To push C the switch instruct in fixed
d: Moves the D-palace go-between,may adjust the angle and the direction wilfully.
I am still looking for my lead plane.
Maybe I left it in the D-palace.
If you never hear from me again, you’ll know why.
I recently reviewed a memoir for The Age newspaper.
Fallen by Rochelle Siemienowicz (Affirm Press)
In a popular TED talk on infidelity, relationship counsellor Esther Perel argues that having an affair is not so much about looking for someone else as looking for a new self. Evidence to support Perel’s theory can be found in Rochelle Siemienowicz’s memoir Fallen. In this frank account of the dying days of a marriage, the author describes her twenty four year old self searching feverishly for a new identity through a series of intense sexual encounters whilst on holiday in Perth.
The twist in this tale is that ‘Eve’ (as the author re-names herself) has an open marriage. Sex outside the relationship is condoned by her husband so long as she asks his permission first. To be ‘unfaithful’ Eve must not only sleep with someone else, but she must conceal the encounter from her beloved spouse.
If you’ve ever felt betrayed by infidelity, Fallen makes for uncomfortable reading. Witnessing Eve’s frantic attempts to both search for, and escape from, a moral framework for her actions is like watching someone wrestle with a snake. Morality matters deeply to this narrator; growing up in a Seventh Day Adventist family, the shame attached to any moral failure – particularly when it came to ‘fornication’ outside marriage – was acute. Eve began losing her faith soon after marriage. Her attempt to forge a new identity through the embrace of sexual freedom could be seen as a final attempt to shed her old skin.
Siemienowicz’s writing is fluid and sensual. Almost every scene – from playing with Barbie dolls to observing a glass vase in a display cabinet – is suffused with the protagonist’s physical longings. Freud’s theory of polymorphous perversity haunts this tale; any person or object can be the spark of desire for the sexual imagination. Even decay can be sexy. Eve describes one of her lovers as ‘heavy and blonde and I can see his youth dying all over him’.
The story ends with the still-married couple boarding a plane to return home from their Perth holiday and the denouement is delivered a little too swiftly in an epilogue. Occasionally, too, we can feel the reconstructive effort that has gone into recalling two-decade old conversations.
When Siemienowicz is describing body language, though, her observations are painfully authentic: ‘Sometimes I see a shrewd and wary look in the women’s eyes, as if they’re assessing me for potential threat. They thought I was safe and partnered, out of bounds. But here I am, shifting the lines of what’s possible’.
Theories abound about the causes of extra-marital affairs. Evolutionary psychologists have been falling over themselves in recent times to persuade us that infidelity lurks in our genes; that men are compelled to sleep around in order to procreate and that promiscuous women have genetic variants that lead them to seek engage in ‘extra pair bonding’.
Science may provide us with persuasive explanations of the role of things like oxytocin and vasopressin receptor genes in our sexual behaviour; this is called non-narrative knowledge. The narrative knowledge conveyed through memoirs like Fallen offers us far more complex and poetic insights into the emotional parameters of infidelity. After reading all about Eve, you may find yourself concluding that some betrayals are not only inevitable, but necessary.
I recently answered these questions on how to overcome writers block for the Australian Women Writers website:
Q. How would you define writer’s block?
The term is an over-simplified way of referring to a multitude of reasons why we sometimes find it hard to write the things we want to write. I try to de-mystify the term by breaking it down to a series of clear and soluble problems. Sometimes fear gets in our way, sometimes planning and logistics are the main problem, and sometimes we actually need to stop writing and allow our brains to do some of the work internally. Guilt is a common symptom (and sometimes a cause) of so-called ‘writer’s block’ and shedding this guilt can often help us kick-start our creativity.
Q. As you’ve reminded us, Thomas Mann wrote ‘A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.’ In your words, what’s he getting at?
I try to interpret this statement in a positive way. Writing is more difficult for writers because we care more about the quality of the writing than others, and we understand better than most what makes the difference between good writing and bad. Ironically it is this very fear of writing badly that enables us to write well. So in my workshops I look at the benefits of this fear and how we can use it to our advantage rather than allow it to disable us. Writing is tricky. Not every idea or everything we put in a first draft is going to be worth salvaging. But almost all ‘bad’ writing can be made better.
Q. Do you think most aspiring writers lack confidence in their writing and how important is confidence in getting published?
Most of us have doubts about the quality of our writing, and again. Those doubts can be useful. When I interviewed best-selling author Christos Tsiolkas a few years ago he said a very interesting thing:
‘There’s this voice on my shoulder that says, “Are you good enough? Are you a fraud? Are you deserving to be… a writer?” [But as well as] that voice… there’s the other one that goes, “You’re a bloody genius.” Equally wrong. I think.’
So too much confidence can be equally dangerous. We need a balance of confidence (or optimism) and realism. It is useful to show your work to others – people whose opinions you trust – before submitting it to a publisher, to get a reality check. I would say discipline is more important than confidence. If you are disciplined about your approach to the logistics of your writing practice and the quality of your work, you will inevitably have more confidence in it.
Interview by Sarah Menary. Sian Prior is teaching Overcoming Writer’s Block: Unlocking your Creativity on Saturday June 13 at Faber Writing Academy go to www.faberwritingacademy.com.au for details.
This interview was published recently on The Big Smoke website:
Through Sherryn Groch’s interview with Sian Prior we learn that while writing is an act of creativity for some, it is therapy for others. Prior’s “Writing as Therapy” workshop takes place later this month.
When Sian Prior sits down to tell a story, it is more than just the impulse of a seasoned writer, more than habit leftover from a career in journalism. It’s repair.
For most of her life, the broadcaster and author has turned to the “straight line” of the sentence to make sense of her experiences – including, at times, a paralysing social anxiety.
“Something about the process that goes on between the mind and the fingers tapping on the keyboard and the pace at which that happens helps me to think more clearly,” Prior tells The Big Smoke. “I will literally just sit down and have a conversation with myself in text and say, ‘well, what’s going on, why am I feeling like this?’”
This month, Prior is holding a Writing as Therapy workshop at The School of Life in Melbourne to help others take away the same benefits from their writing.
“I guess it’s a natural fit given the subject matter of my memoir, which was in many ways a deeply therapeutic process for me as a writer,” says Prior. “I hope to give people some practical tools on how to use writing as a way of understanding themselves better, of finding some relief from whatever it is that’s causing them suffering.”
For Prior herself, that suffering has been a life-long struggle with what most of us call “shyness.” As she recalls in her memoir, Shy, social anxiety has always been an unavoidable reality for Prior – something she suspects may have just been hot-wired into her DNA.
“I have a memory of being on a beach at only three or four years old and hiding behind my mother’s legs because my big scary, teenage cousins were there,” says Prior. “That anxiety is something I don’t ever remember being without.”
Yet, even back in those early moments, Prior says there was another feeling too – a growing excitement for stories.
“My mother recently dug up a story I’d written when I was still at primary school, a little crime thriller involving the family dog,” says Prior. “It was very cute to read back over it and think there’s so much wrong with it but what’s right about it is the impulse to tell a story. I was clearly really excited by the possibility of story.”
That passion has since thrown Prior into a long line of very public careers – first as a campaigner for the Australian Conservation Foundation, then as an ABC broadcaster and now as a creative writing teacher and author in her own right.
“I don’t think any of us are a singular, unified identity,” says Prior. “I think we all have different versions of ourselves; different voices and different roles we play. It’s about turning all that babble that goes on inside our heads, all those contradictions, into words.”
And it is there on the page that the writer will often find catharsis, Prior says. Teaching at RMIT University, she has now witnessed countless students begin to make sense of their lives through memoir.
“I have one student at the moment writing about dealing with incurable cancer and staying alive and, by writing about it, she’s realising that she’s not letting it get on top of her,” says Prior. “I have another student making all kinds of personal discoveries and revelations by going back over her past as a stripper and figuring out how it changed her. Writing can be incredibly transformative in the right circumstances.”
But, while confessional memoir is “a great way of outing shame and embarrassment,” Prior believes writers should also understand its limits.
“Just blurting out all of your innermost secrets is not enough. You need to craft it into a story, to manage things like self-pity. You should always be asking yourself: ‘what’s the story in this situation?’”
Fortunately, the author is not expecting a class full of Hemingways made to order ahead of her Writing as Therapy workshop this month
“I don’t want people to worry too much about the quality of their writing when they’re first starting out,” Prior says. “Do it so that it’s pleasurable and useful for yourself and then you can start to think about how to apply a bit of craft to do it even better.”
After all, just as writing can be healing, it can also be a whole lot of fun.
(Sherryn Groch is a freelance writer and journalism student from Melbourne. She enjoys writing short stories, frolicking in unsecured meadows and sometimes tweets.)
This week I learnt a new term: notional ekphrasis (sounds like ’emphasis’). It means writing about an imaginary artwork. I learnt about it in a workshop with Robin Hemley, Adjunct Professor of Creative Writing at RMIT.
And then I tried my hand at it:
The ceramic tiles will come from the demolition of a kitchen in which a woman only ever baked one pie (from a gift her husband gave her called ‘The Slut’s Cookbook’).
The tile fragments will be stuck in place by an artist who used to be an ornithologist (before an artery in her neck grew a lining of cells that promised to stop the blood flowing to her head next time she went bush).
The image will be of a rainbow bee-eater I once saw on an island where dingos outnumbered people (and where a woman whose child was bitten by one put out poison bait just before she boarded the ferry).
The ceramic bird will be attached to the back wall of my garden (over which I sometimes hear a man bullying his son into playing the drums while the piano-playing man belts out the same Elton John song at least fourteen times in a row).
The mosaic will soon be streaked with shit from the mynahs (who perch on the wall in a neat queue before taking their turn to bathe in the ceramic bowl I put in the garden for the native birds.)
In spring the jasmine vines will grow over the mosaic until all I can see from the kitchen window are kaleidoscopic fragments of a dirty rainbow.
(But it will smell great.)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And then there is simple ekphrasis: a verbal representation of a visual representation. Auden’s poem ‘Musee des Beaux Arts (1940)’ is a lovely example.
I had a go at that too, with an old postcard of Mt Etna erupting:
Without imagination, there would be no science.
Stephen must have forgotten this.
He never believed the sky had turned purple.
He knew the postcard from his Italian uncle had been given the same technicolour treatment given to Dorothy before she clicked her imaginary heels in Oz.
Besides, even if those billowing clouds of ash had somehow washed the sky purple, this time there would be no clouds, no ash, no purple sky, because now all was dormant.
It had been ninety years since the last eruption. Tourists had been crawling all over the crumbling rim of the crater for the last sixty of those.
But perhaps Stephen had been carrying this image in his mind since boyhood. The invitation. The seduction. The promise. Perhaps this was the version of the world he’d secretly been hoping to find at the summit.
Stephen was a scientist. He looked for signs that came in clusters, for clusters that could be corralled into evidence. Imagination was the enemy of evidence. Imagination turned a blue sky purple.
When he felt a tightening twinge in his left shoulder as he knelt there in the crumbling pumice, he didn’t read it as a sign. He blamed his imagination.
The sky was blue, after all.
Try this short quiz: given the choice, would you prefer to A) make small talk with a stranger or B) chew your own arm off? If you answered A) you are probably shy. Don’t worry, you are in good company: approximately forty percent of us identify ourselves as suffering from shyness. And if you’d rather chew both arms off than engage in chit-chat with someone you’ve never met, you might even be one of the five percent of the population who are stricken by social phobia.
According to psychologists, shyness is a temperament trait that exists on a spectrum between approach and withdrawal. ‘Approachers’ are the ones who’ll try to strike up a conversation with you on the bus about the weather forecast or the football results. If, like me, you were born on the withdrawal end of the spectrum, you probably put your sunglasses on and bury your head in a book to avoid having to chat to any public transport approachers. For shy people small talk can be an agony.
According to Professor Ron Rapee, head of the Centre for Emotional Health in Sydney, shy people often suffer from social anxiety, at the core of which is ‘worry and fear about being negatively evaluated’.
‘A lot of shy people avoid social situations because of that concern about being evaluated by others. They have physical symptoms (of anxiety) like shaking’.
So it makes sense that engaging in small talk could induce distress in those of us who struggle with ‘stranger-danger’. As a young traveller backpacking solo around Europe for six months, the most frightening part of the trip for me was being called upon to chat with other travellers at youth hostel dining tables.
According to linguists, though, small talk is a vital part of human discourse. It oils the wheels of interaction and generates social cohesion. Think about the trust and goodwill generated between the new client and the hairdresser as they chat about the latest celebrity updates in the salon’s fashion magazines, or the stress relief for disappointed fans as they commiserate with strangers about their team’s loss on the train ride home from the match. Even the outcome of job interviews can be influenced by the tone set during those initial verbal pleasantries before the serious questioning begins.
Anthropologist Robin Dunbar believes human chatter is a form of social grooming, a bit like monkeys picking insects out of each other’s fur. In ‘Grooming, Gossip and the Evolution of Language’, he writes ‘it’s the tittle-tattle of life that makes the world go round, not the pearls of wisdom that fall from the lips of the Aristotles and the Einsteins. We are social beings and our world… is cocooned in the interests and the minutiae of everyday social life.’
But what if you’re shy and don’t think you can ‘do’ small talk? Won’t that increase your anxiety in social situations?
According to Robert Coplan from the Psychology Department at CarletonUniversity in Ottawa, Canada,‘it’s fairly well established that shy children and shy adults tend to talk less, typically because they are feeling nervous or self-conscious in situations, so they produce less language. Some people have suggested that if you speak less then you have less opportunity to practice your language skills.’ Psychologist Ron Rapee has a different take on this debate: ‘My view is that it’s all perception. Socially anxious people perceive themselves as incompetent at small talk but they are perfectly competent.’
Whatever the cause of our anxiety about small talk, we shy people are probably more interested in finding the solution. One American self-help author believes the best strategy is to focus on helping others as a way of helping ourselves. Debra Fine’s book ‘The Fine Art of Small Talk’ offers a strategy involving two basic rules.
The first could be seen a form of exposure therapy: ‘Take The Risk: it is up to us to take the risk of starting a conversation with a stranger… even if we are shy’. This is all very well, but when your shy brain is full of ‘what if’s’ (what if they don’t want to talk to me? what if they think I’m an idiot?) it can be almost impossible to make the first move.
Fine’s second rule has proved more useful for me as a way of tackling my aversion to small talk. ‘Assume the Burden’, Fine suggests; ‘it is our responsibility to come up with topics to discuss… to assume the burden of other people’s comfort’. According to psychologists, shy people are often deeply empathic. After all, we spend a lot of time wondering what others are thinking. We can employ that empathy to help ourselves in awkward social situations by focusing on helping the other person out. If forty percent of us are shy, there’s a good chance the stranger we’re stuck next to at the wedding party buffet is feeling just as anxious about making small talk. By ‘assuming the burden’ and making the first conversational offer, we can be simultaneously altruistic and self-serving.
This strategy can sometimes lead to even more awkwardness. At a book launch recently I took the initiative and began chatting with a young Asian woman who was standing alone, looking bereft. My chatter ground to a halt when I realized she spoke almost no English, and I skulked away in embarrassment. More often, though, I am finding that my Small Talk Super-Heroine impersonation leads to an enjoyable conversation with someone who soon feels more like friend than foe.
The fact that I’ve written a book about my own shyness is proving to be an excellent conversation opener when I’m targetting the most socially anxious person in the room to practice my small talk. Before long we are swapping tales of social terror and giggling about our irrational fears. And nothing oils the wheels of social discourse – and banishes terror – like sharing a laugh.
(A version of this article was published in Fairfax’s ‘Sunday Life’ magazine on June 14th)
I recently did an interview with Sophie Clews for the Creative Issue website about ‘Shy: a memoir’ and writing as therapy. Here is a transcript:
CI: (In relation to your career thus far) is there anything new you’d want to try?
Sian Prior: To be honest, I feel less professionally ambitious these days. I’m more interested in having time to think, reflect, and write, and communicate with people in that way, rather than in more high profile ways. But I’ve started doing some casual presenting on ABC Classic FM lately, which has been great, as it’s a possible path back into radio.
CI: Talking about your writing, how did you start? Were you always a writer?
SP: My mum actually recently found a story I’d written when I was still in primary school that she had hung onto. It was an extremely elaborate crime story involving our pet corgi at the time, so clearly I’ve been wanting to write and tell stories from a very young age. I’ve been writing short stories for a while, too.
CI: Have any writers in particular inspired you?
SP: I’ve always been a big Margaret Atwood fan. I also read Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, in which Didion grapples with terrible grief after the death of her husband and the illness of her daughter. I just thought she was absolutely ruthless in trying to analyse her feelings as a way of getting on top of them, and particularly in avoiding sounding self-pitying. I think that’s really important when you’re writing that kind of confessional misery memoir.
CI: I take it Didion inspired Shy in that way? Why did you ultimately decide to write a memoir, out of all the types of literary endeavours?
SP: About ten years ago I started to write a novel that had a very shy main character, and I ended up drawing a lot of material from my own life. To be honest, it was terrible. I eventually abandoned that, and when I came back to the idea of writing about a shy person and decided to write about myself as a shy person, it felt so much more comfortable and authentic. It felt like I didn’t have to work so hard to make it believable.
When I started Shy, I intended it to be a much more informative and a less personal book. I was always going to include some of my own stuff in it, but I’d interviewed other people. But then I got feedback from early readers that the stuff that was resonating with them was the personal parts, so after that it became a strange tussle between writing a memoir or a self-help book, and what I think I ended up writing was a self-help memoir.
CI: If you were to write a novel now, do you think you’d write another shy character? Or do you think you’d explore?
SP: I’m not really thinking about writing a novel at the moment. I feel like I got so much out of the process of writing Shy. Non-fiction feels like a safe place for me, after working as a journalist for so many years, so I think when I write another book, it will also have to be non-fiction.
CI: When you started writing Shy, did you intend writing it to work as a sort of therapy?
SP: I didn’t attach that word at the beginning, but some part of my brain thought that if I got enough information about shyness, I’d be able to cure myself. But the process of writing did become very therapeutic for me. It enabled me to get rid of a lot of emotions that I had attached to shyness, like shame and embarrassment, and thinking it was some kind of weakness.
I now understand that it was something I was born with, and that it comes with a whole lot of positive things that I hadn’t realised before. It was also very cathartic to put it all out there in such an exposing way. I wrote incredibly frankly about all of my own fears, shames, and in particular about the end of my relationship. I found it very useful as a way of understanding that event. I have dialogues where I try and understand what that was all about through a conversation with myself. It’s made me much more aware of the therapeutic benefits of that kind of writing.
CI: So it wasn’t an intentional thing?
SP: The School of Life invited me to run this course, but they had wanted to run it anyway. They had read my book and then seen it as an example of therapeutic writing and asked me to lead the course. It’s been very interesting for me as I prepare, to think about what therapeutic benefits I got myself and how I can communicate it to other people in this kind of session.
CI: It seems like it’s a hard thing to teach.
SP: Yes and no. I’ve been teaching writing for a long time now, but not this particular focus. But I’ve taught a lot of nonfiction writers, in particular memoirists. I’ve observed how therapeutic many of my students have found those processes of digging back through their own lives and relating the experiences to other people, and trying to make sense of their experiences by turning it into a narrative, which is what the seminar will be talking about.
In some ways, it’s a no brainer. Lots of people love writing and we all have some level of need for therapy or stress relief. If I wasn’t teaching it, I’d be enrolling in the course myself!
CI: What is the course going to entail for the participants?
SP: There are two key ideas I want to talk about in the session. One is a notion that came to me from the book The Situation and The Story by Vivian Gornick. She writes very insightfully about how we use writing as a way of defining the story from a situation we might be in. That’s part of the therapeutic approach, I suppose, to say, “This is my situation, but what’s actually going on?”
The other thing we’re going to be looking at is psychological theory known as the dialogical self. It’s about the idea that we spend so much time having this conversation with ourselves about what’s going on and debating certain decisions, but it’s all happening inside our heads. It’s something I explored a lot in Shy, writing up conversations I’d had with myself. I want to talk to people about the value of attending to those conversation that go on inside our heads, and writing them down as a way of achieving clarity with what’s going on for us.
CI: If you’re not working on a novel, do you have any new projects in the works?
SP: I’ve got some essays on the go and a few ideas for nonfiction books, but they’re in similarly dark and self-revealing territory as Shy, so I think I need a little bit of pause from the therapy! With the new ideas, I need to gather my forces and decide how I’m going to approach this stuff, to make it more therapeutic than painful. I’m not prepared to talk too much about them until I really figure out how to do that.
Writing as Therapy will take place at The School Of Life on May 27th, from 6-9pm. Sian will also be In Conversation With Sarah Darmody on May 2nd, from 4-6pm. For more details, visit The School Of Life.
We’ve been traveling: three and a half weeks in my new camper van. It’s a cubby house on wheels that has been providing me with the same kind of joy and fantasy-fulfillment as the cubby houses of my childhood.
We’ve listened to all twelve episodes of This American Life’s latest podcast addiction, ‘Serial’. We’ve visited beaches, rivers and inlets, forests, mountains and hamlets – including a little place in country Victoria called Stratford. Which is to be found right beside the Avon River. It’s pretty quiet in this hamlet. Lots of shops closed down, lots of houses for sale. Not many reasons to stop in Stratford these days.
Except, of course, that it’s Stratford on Avon.
So in the spirit of post-Christmas generosity my companion and I have started a list of new business names to send to the Stratford Chamber of Commerce in the hope of inspiring a local tourism boom:
The butcher’s shop – The Merchant of Venison
The brothel – A Pound of Flesh
The other brothel – As You Like it
The coffee shop – The Witches Brew
The Country Women’s Association – The Merry Wives
The firearms store – Slings and Arrows
The bank – Outrageous Fortune
The art gallery – We’re for Art
The op shop – The Merchant of Vinnies
The surf shop – Once More unto the Beach
The dry cleaners – Out Damned Spot
The high-end homewares shop – Much Ado about Nothing
The maternal healthcare clinic – Mewling and Puking
The funeral parlour – All’s Well that Ends Well
The other funeral parlour – This Mortal Coil
The relationship counselling service – Loves Labours Lost
The greengrocer – Salad Days
The massage clinic – There’s the Rub
The audiology clinic – Lend me your Ears
The greyhound track – Let Slip the Dogs
The camping supplies store – The Winter of our Discount Tent
To be continued.
(With thanks to John Merkel and some Facebook friends)
In 2015 I will be offering a mentoring service for writers working on non fiction projects: memoirs, autobiographies, biographies, how-to and self-help books, immersions, histories, essays, articles, blogs, etc.
The mentoring will take the form of individual consultations (in person or remotely by Skype or phone) and/or small group workshopping sessions.
You will receive detailed individual feedback on your work-in-progress, including advice on: voice, tone, form, structure, research techniques, targetting a readership, developing disciplined writing habits, re-drafting, overcoming writers block, and finding a publisher.
You don’t need to be an experienced writer – just be willing to re-draft your work as a way of improving it.
Consultation schedules can be flexible – anything from once a week to once a month.
Details of my decade of teaching experience at TAFE, universities, writers festivals and with private students can be found on the ‘Teacher’ page of this website, along with testimonials from previous students.
Feel free to contact me by email for more information via the ‘Contact’ page.
Fifty years ago today my father died. This is a chapter from ‘Shy: a memoir’ (Text Publishing) in which i wrote about his death:
Sometimes when I’m at a surf beach I half expect to see him out there, floating serenely in the waves. He’s enjoying the feel of the water on his broad shoulders, the warmth of the sun on his wet scalp. He’ll come in soon and towel off, squinting into the glare, and then he’ll smile at me with my own shy smile, my mirror-face. We’ll sit together under a striped umbrella and watch the families gathered in little clutches around their blue and white Eskies, or spread out in human join-the-dots patterns, playing with wet tennis balls. The children with sand clinging to their legs, women tugging at their bikinis, men standing in pairs at the water’s edge, arms crossed in identical poses as they exchange information about the latest cricket scores.
But that’s not how the beach looked that day. That day the beach was wind-whipped and empty, until the busload of blinking orchestral musicians piled out onto the sand. A day when no one should have been swimming but some couldn’t resist. That’s what I’ve been told. I think. I can’t be sure now.
There were two of them leading the way to the water’s edge, young ones, feeling immortal. I picture them hopping over the waves, their pale musicians’ arms flapping at the froth under the scudding clouds. Then quickly sucked out beyond the shallows by the furtive rip. Arms flapping harder now, salt water leaping into their mouths. Frog-legs kicking. Frog-voices croaking uselessly under the roar of the breakers.
And the father suddenly forgetting about himself and hauling off his shirt. Running now, running away from his wife and children and into the clutching water. Those trumpeter’s lungs breathing deep, that blonde head diving over and under the waves as he heads for the furthest immortal.
And the rest of the orchestra watching, not breathing, as the slow-motion father reaches the furthest immortal and puts his hand under a chin and hauls the young body backwards through the over-taking waves until he can feel the sandy bottom under his feet.
Is this what happened? Or was there a rope around his waist and a silent group of onlookers at the other end, slow-motion-tugging them back to shore? I’m not sure. I have to fill in the gaps for you. And for me.
The rest of the orchestra is watching, breathing again, as the first immortal staggers onto the shore. But the father turns (isn’t one enough? why so helpful?) and goes out again. He’s tiring now, trumpeter’s lungs seared with salt, legs kicking slower, but he makes it to the gulping violinist. Again that strong hand under a chin and the slow progress away from the horizon. The onlookers turn to each other, shaking their heads in amazement. A hero!
My mother looks down at her eldest daughter and mouths ‘yes’ in response to a question that can hardly be heard over the whipping wind.
And when they all turn back the second immortal is safe.
Safe but alone.
The father has disappeared.
I imagine it as an upside down pyramid of suffering in the remnants of our family that day, gradually diluting as it goes down the family structure. Margot first: pure scarifying misery. But how can I conjure that?
My five-year-old sister is next, the one who had asked our mother ‘is he coming back,?’ The one to whom Margot replied ‘yes’ (but did my sister really say that? Have I made it up? Embellished the story?)
Then my brother, nearly two years old and so like his father already, everybody says so, the spitting image. Holding onto our mother’s legs for dear life as the sand whips around his chubby ankles.
And at the bottom of the pyramid there is me, the three-month old baby, blissfully unaware. Safe in Margot’s arms, eyes shielded from the whipping sand by a soft blanket. But I feel her heartbeat. It thuds against my ear, too fast. I feel her chest rising and falling as the fear sucks the air from her oboist’s lungs. I feel her arms tightening around me.
Perhaps too tight.
There is a photo I’ve seen (or do I imagine I’ve seen?) in another yellowing news clipping. Pinned up at my grandfather Stan Prior’s place, maybe. A woman is standing on a beach. Standing where the wet sand meets the dry, looking out to sea. She looks so alone, in spite of the three small children with her. She’s waiting, as I sometimes do, to see those shoulders rise above the waves and begin the slow swim back to shore.
Perhaps it’s not a photo I remember but a dream. I wonder if all four of us have had variations of the same one. He waits until we’re asleep and then he appears way out beyond the breakers and he’s swimming towards us. Pretty soon he’s stumbling through the shallows to the shore, tired but safe. We’re relieved but we’re also angry. Where have you been all these years, we ask? Why didn’t you come back? Didn’t you realise we’d be worried sick? Did you think about us at all before you leapt into the surf to save someone else’s children?
Sometimes when I’m swimming in surf I dive under the waves and stay down there while the water pummels my legs. I try to imagine how it must have felt for him in those last moments. Did he crash into some hidden rocks and then know nothing more? Or did he feel that pummelling too and fight to be able to breathe again? I wait until my lungs are screaming and then I surface, gasping like a fish, and stumble through the shallows to the shore, tired but safe. Like my dream father.
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