Thank you Mr Banville. And My Mother Might Thank You too

I was watching a documentary about author John Banville last night. I don’t know much about Banville and have never read any of his books. However, he struck me as such a sincere person—a decent man—who believes writing is art. Well his writing anyway. I liked that.


Anyway, he talked a little about his background and mentioned his mother. He related a story, a memory really, about the time he feels he actually ‘separated’ or turned away from his mother. He was four or five and his mother had just kissed him. He pulled away, and said to her that he didn’t want to be kissed anymore. He said it’s a sad memory, but an important one.

I, too, have a similar memory. Not the same and more a kind of mirror to Banville’s, but here it is anyway. I was ten or eleven and it was time for school. I stood in the kitchen and my mother was combing my hair. I was a tall child and as she combed, I said to my mother, ‘If I get any taller you’ll have to stand on a chair to reach’. She stopped combing and in a testy tone said, ‘I hope by then you can comb your own hair.

At that moment, something shifted inside me. I guess you could say, looking back, that I suddenly realised I had to try to stand on my own two feet from then on. But, at the time, I felt rejected, hurt, confused. Unlike Banville, who chose to separate from his mother, it seemed my mother was separating from me. Of course, a more objective view of the incident might conclude that this was simply the overwrought reaction of a busy mother trying to get three young kids off to school and out of her hair.

Then, as I thought about this story, I suddenly remembered another one concerning my mother. Many years later an older (but not necessarily wiser or more mature) me was in another country and tried to call home after suffering a tremendous emotional upset. I called collect; my mother answered and refused to accept the charges. I literally reeled away from the phone in shock. I really did. Almost fell over. I couldn’t believe it. It truly hurt for a long while. Of course, later I realised (once again objectivity came to the rescue) that she had guessed I would want to speak with my father and he wasn’t there. Trouble is, it took me a while for that realisation to arrive and sink in.

Banville reckons that the artist always has a problematic relationship with his (and I think he does mean his) mother. Old Mr Freud might interject here to remind us that all men have problematical relationships with their mothers. Not sure if I can say if that’s true or not. I don’t know many men intimately, and I know even fewer mothers.

When my mother died about 15 years ago. No, it was 18 years. Time flies doesn’t it? Anyway, when my mother died, I was with her. Stroking her hair and whispering reassuring words into her left ear. When her breathing stopped, I knew—I felt—that she’d gone, her ‘energy’ or life force was no longer there. And I felt nothing. Not numb exactly, more like indifference. Well I was pleased her suffering was over (and she really had suffered), but other than that it was, ‘Oh well, that’s that then’. And you know something? I don’t think I’ve grieved for her. Not yet anyway.

My mother was what people like to call an ‘ordinary’ woman. God, I loathe that expression, but you probably know what I mean. Another expression I loathe is ‘simple person’, but I guess, she was that too. So, here’s another little story that I am not sure is connected, but it is one I feel compelled to relate. One day my mother and youngest sister were visiting my partner and me in our apartment. My mother sat opposite me with my partner beside her. In those younger days I had less sensitivity than I hope I have now, and I shared those stereotyped views of her being a simple woman. I am ashamed to say I thought of her as a bit ‘stupid’ even. It shames me even saying it here. Anyway, I forget the conversation or what my mother actually said, but it was something I disdained. I  smiled at her and winked at my partner.

My mother saw the wink, and instantly I knew that she knew what I was thinking. I was ashamed then, and I am now. Neither she nor I ever mentioned it (we only saw each other rarely anyway), but I’ve never forgotten it or forgiven myself.

As I said, I’m not sure it’s part of this story, but I guess it could be seen as an element of a ‘problematical relationship’ with one’s mother.

I think I owe something to Mr Banville. He’s got me thinking about my mother. He’s got me thinking that perhaps some of the issues I have as an artist just might have to do with my relationship with her. I often feel that a huge part of the artist’s work has to do with grief and its expression, meaning, resolution and all that. Could it even be that some of the block or inhibition, or frustrations I feel as a writer (artist) might just, at least in part, be a result of that lack of grieving for her, the lack of coming to terms with our shared pasts? Maybe. Which means, of course that a coming to terms with that past and finding a way to grieve, might be found in the practise of my art, in letting words do their work. And that would lead to an opening up of my writing, to a greater freedom of expression. A kind of virtuous cycle? Maybe

Anyway, thank you Mr Banville

What's the time? Who cares: Just Write!

I’d like to share with you an extremely thought provoking quote I found recently:

‘When I sit down at my writing desk, time seems to vanish. I think it’s a wonderful way to live one’s life’

This is something the author Erica Jong said. I don’t know where and I don’t know when. But it is a great quote and contains a lot of truth. I’ve said it’s thought provoking because, while some of us writers would agree with her sentiments that it’s a wonderful way to live a life, many of us might take exception to the idea that time vanishes when we sit at our desks. And then a third group would say, yes, sometimes time goes by really quickly when I’m writing, but other times it’s like the proverbial pulling of teeth.

I would say without hesitation that I am in that last group. I love writing and sometimes the words flow and the time it takes doesn’t even enter into my consciousness. Then, when I finally do look up (or I should say away) from the screen, I see that time has literally flown by. Other times it almost becomes a torture as I (sometimes literally) watch the clock as I plough through another session of staring at a blank screen with its flashing cursor (or is that the cursed flashing thing?). Then there’s the line-by-line edit that doesn’t seem to be working, a 500 word mini review that has somehow gotten itself written as a 1500 word feature. The list of torturous scenarios goes on.

However, when I read Jong’s quote I had this idea that it is how we view time and our writing that dictates our perception of time’s passing—not to mention the enjoyment we get from our writing as we write. Of course, it’s a cliché to say that time drags by when one is watching the clock or indeed when one is having a less than wonderful time. I wonder, though, does it need to be that way?

I don’t think it does. Watching the clock, agonising over the unpleasantness or difficulty of a task, thinking about what we would rather be doing, and so on, is hardly allowing us to fully focus on what it is we are doing; it also takes us away from the present moment. And, really, shouldn’t be fully present if she or he is to really allow access to the words that they have within and which are only awaiting the chance to come out?

If any occupation lends itself to being fully in the now, it is writing. But you know, even as I write this I am thinking about the lyrics of the song I’m listening to. It’s not an easy thing, this being in the present. I guess all that we can do is try.

We can begin that effort by a continual vigilance. When we find ourselves drifting away, watching the clock, complaining internally about how hard the job at hand is, we can simply bring ourselves back to that task. And I mean the minute details of it. Like, really noticing that comma I just typed after ‘Like’—as I type it! Feel the key, watch the comma appear on the screen; really read the words as they appear on the screen; feel your bottom on the seat; whatever it takes! The key is to be here now.

Nobody will ever convince me that a line-by-line grammar and punctuation edit is supposed to be fun. But, you know, there are times when it is at least not onerous, when it becomes a challenge. In fact in the case of this particular task, the more present you are, the quicker the job will be and the more accurate too!

And what about when we are caught up in the beauty and fun of the process of writing itself? Well time can fly by, or vanish. Again, it’s about just being with the process, being in the here and now of the flow of words. Try it. I’m going to.

                                                                                           

Kerouac's #10: No Time for Poetry but exactly what is

On the face of it, this Belief & Technique from Kerouac (for a visit to my commentaries on the list so far, feel free to head there now or later if you prefer, and read them all in sequence.) seems to say no fantasy, no imagining the future, no reflections on the past. He seems to say you can only use what is in your poetry. And of course, by Poetry he means all your writing, all your artistic and creative expressions. I hope you all dig that.
But, wait a minute. Any of us remotely acquainted with Buddhism know that now is the only time there is; that we are at any moment the sum of our lives so far. Right? So that's the loophole you see. In this moment, right now, I could be thinking about something that happened in my past, or I might be 'daydreaming' or having a cool fantasy that I know is never going to happen in the real world. Or I might just be musing over the possibilities for my supposedly 'real' or imagined future.
Now, this doesn't mean we are dwelling in any of those imaginary places; it only means we are sorting them out into some kind of order in our minds. And that's okay. It fits with 'exactly what is now'. So when we write it we are engaging with the thoughts and feelings that are happening right now, even if those thoughts and feelings are a response to some imagining of past or future.
Of course old Jack is also here talking about truth in poetry (or as I say, in any creative expression). That's where the exactly comes in. Now, notice I'm not saying he's talking about getting your facts right: as we've discovered in these posts on more than one occasion, truth and facts aren't always going to be the same thing. Remember the old adage, 'This story is true, only the facts have been changed'?
Mr Kerouac, may he rest in peace ('cos he got very little when he was alive, dig?), is talking about my favourite topic: personal dharma. He's saying "Look people, if you gonna write poetry, then you gotta make it your truth. Tell it like it is man. There 'ain't no other way".
And what about time in this one? Of course it means that to use time in any other way than to tell it like it is is a waste of time. Easy eh? Maybe 'no time' can also mean this time, the now, this moment, the current hour, whatever. In other words, if you are going to tell it like it is, tell the truth of your heart and your life, then you might as well make it right now. No time to lose, dig this moment and record all that exists in this moment. You know why you have to do this of course don't you? Sure you do. It's 'cos this moment is all there is. What's that other adage that is a very groovy, cool and true cliche? Oh yeah: The past is gone, the future is a fantasy. The only reality (I use the word with caution here) is the present moment.
Peace and stuff to you all