Too Old to Blog?

Sunday, November 18, 2007

Update

I was going to delete this blog, but then decided it might be alright to keep. In order to finish the last chapter of my novel, my husband daughter and I went back to Lake Tekapo at Easter this year to fill out the geography of the story. Just as well. I had the river running the wrong way! But it was as fantastic a place as I remembered and I returned to the land of the long red dust cloud to finish the novel.

However, I'm teaching full time and we are moving house and i can't devote all my energies to it until the next Summer rolls along.

Nevertheless, I have made some changes to the novel on the blog, interpolations and a prologue and stuff. It reads much better I think and may even end up published. Who knows.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Where's the novel, Ennis?

For what it's worth, I have finished the first draft of my novel.
It was being hosted at Blogspot, but I've decided to move it to a postkiwi.com server. It was supposed to be an Australian novel, but it turned into a very NZ one, so it belongs on the postkiwi site, really. It's called Friday in Summer and I have learned a lot about blogging from the whole summer experience. These are a couple of the photos that I used for inspiration. I hope I've been able to add links for them.


My daughter and I reckon next year we are going to declare December or maybe january our month for writing. Really November doesn't work for us. And now we are back in to the old grind, but I haven't got a full-time job yet, so have a few days to make changes. But I've posted the current result and won't change it unless there are any more major differences. Think I'll put some interpolations of the legend to round out the story.

Might make 50,000 words yet.

Thursday, December 22, 2005

Chapter 4 in the continuing story

As he spoke, I saw a flash of light to one side of the cairn. A man appeared and then stood aside. From this distance it looked like Mr Cox who had bought our farm. He was wearing clothes, and it looked like he was carrying a massive great basket under his arm. Beside me the Dodger winced.

‘Is that Mr Cox?’

‘Yes. Cox, Hall and Beswick. They’re the Clan. Dad keeps trying to keep them off our property, but they just toss him aside. Sure, they pay well for the privilege, but Dad regrets the deal. I think we should wait til they are all through.’

Even as he spoke, another stocky, fully-dressed man appeared at the cairn out of the light-burst. Jasper put his head on the ground and hid his muzzle under his paws with a whimper. Sore. For the first time ever, the Dodger laid his hand on my dog’s head and spoke to him: ‘Poor wee beastie. It’ll pass.’

Hamish didn’t appear to notice. ‘That’s Beswick. I think his son is with him as well. Yeah, that’s him. Rod. Captain of the First XV. He’s a very creditable lock. Could play for Victoria if he wanted.’

Being alerted to something amiss each time the light burst, I thought I could identify it by this third time. The voice from the forest in the wind was keening softly. I didn’t feel it though. I could just hear it. At the fourth flash I could definitely hear the pain. So, traversing was not without its cost it seemed. Hamish was continuing.

‘I think Steve Hall’s the last. I thought he might have brought his young son, but maybe Dan’s too young at 12. Beswick only has daughters. They’re not interested in the family business. Happy to live off the profits though.’

The four men started moving off away from us to the other side of the Pass. This was the signal for us to start moving too. I followed Hamish and asked as we walked: ‘Where are they going then?’

The Dodger and Jasper stood and followed. They were close enough to hear Hamish’s answer ‘They’ve a field on the levels beyond the cairn. Looks like they’ve brought tools for harvest. Four of them can take a good amount of the seed back. Of course, by taking the seed back, they are making less available here for clothes and stuff. They get a good price for the plants back home that grow from the seed, but it’s a hybrid. When they plant it in our land, the plant doesn’t last into another generation.’

Ok, interesting, but now I had to concentrate on walking for a bit. It wasn’t as hard as it had been before our rest in the forest, but I still had to think about putting this foot down and then the next. If we’d had to walk straight up it would have been very steep, but the path climbed in a zigzag. I was close behind Hamish, but at each switch-back the Dodger looked at me. On the third corner, he caught my eye and then glared at my neck. I looked down. My bathrobe had ridden lower and the necklace was visible between the lapels. It didn’t seem that important anymore. As soon as we had finished this part of the journey and I was home again, the mystery of why my necklace broke the rules would be moot. But it mattered to the Dodger, so I pulled the bathrobe closed again.

Do you know, I would rather walk a kilometre on the flat than 100 metres up a hill. I think it’s the legs, and lifting the little tree stumps up and up and up. If I had thought about it, I would have wondered about the absence of pain in my thighs, or a stitch in my side, but this walking up hills business has been a perennial complaint of mine. Even on the farm when I was little, I stuck to the flat. So I was pleased when the path started flattening out. The short stretch of zigzag finished, and Hamish disappeared momentarily behind an outcropping of rocks. A little delay and then I, the Dodger and Jasper came through between the rocks in a group. The flat had given me enough energy to voice my complaints about hills to the Dodger, so we weren’t prepared for the ambush.

Hamish had apparently disappeared from the straight stretch of the path in front, so we stopped. At that moment, three men leapt out from behind the rocks and grabbed us. Jasper barked once, Enemies, and I started to yell, but a hand was clasped over my mouth. I tried to bite the hand, but this was impossible. A thick rope was tied around me, my arms being caught, then I was gagged. The Dodger I could see was not going quietly either, but our misspent youths reading books and playing music had caught up with us. The Dodger struggled against his captor, a dark-skinned young man with black curly hair, but he was soon tied with rope and a gag placed over his mouth.

I looked around for the third man. He was sitting quietly in front of Jasper, looking into his eyes. I thought that my dog would have given a better account of himself, but the man, also dark-skinned and black-haired, was unscathed. A growl escaped from between the dog’s teeth. I was surprised and disbelieving of the message that appeared in my head. I was wrong. Friends. The third man smiled and laid his open hand almost reverently on Jasper’s head.

‘Well, that’s a different story than when these guys were chasing us through the woods.’ Hamish complained as he was pushed towards us by a woman, who called quietly to the men. The language was nothing I had ever heard before, but it became clear what she had said when my captor shoved me, relatively gently, towards the woman. She was not at all gentle in pushing Hamish towards my old captor. The woman grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the clearing towards another rock. When I looked back I could not see the boys, but one of our attackers had taken off his back-pack and was emptying it. After this last comforting sight, my captor, complaining in the unknown language, kept me moving until we were well out of sight of the others.

When we came to a stop, the woman took off her backpack and started rummaging around inside it... I expected to see, well, I don’t know, possibly more ropes or a knife. What she pulled out was more frightening. It was a shirt and a pair of unisize, unisex yoga pants, pretty-well identical to what she was wearing. I was dumbfounded. In no way could I accept the offer implicit in the clothes. I won’t need clothes thank you because I am just going to walk up to the top of this hill, think about my mum and leave here. She stood up and offered me the clothes again. Now she began to talk to me. We were looking eye-to-eye so I noticed with the aesthetic word-smith inside me that her eyes were dark chocolate coloured. She had a round, attractive face: tanned skin, brown eyes, high cheek bones. For the first time I saw her as a person who could be motivated by something as simple as kindness. She waved her stick at me, indicating my bonds, and then shoved the clothes at me a third time. Message clear: ‘I will untie you so you can get dressed, but if you attempt to escape, I will hit you with this stick.’

She smiled and displayed a row of perfectly even teeth. Her age was difficult to tell, but I thought she seemed older than me and younger than my mother. She spoke more words, gesturing back the way we had come and then towards the bathrobe. Given the situation I think a free translation could have run like this: ‘Those fullas. They don’t know anything. Dragging a girl around the countryside in a bathrobe! They got no sense. I betcha they did it just so they could have a look at your ...’ or something like that. I nodded as she offered me the clothes again while mentally reserving my right to be back home in a few minutes.

She untied the ropes around me and handed me the harem pants, measuring them against me. A good length. The colour was that same neutral dirt colour that all the clothes seemed to be here. Clothes and fashion was not one of my things, but I think the fabric was a soft linen. No zip or buttons I noticed. I pulled the string tight around my waist. Comfortable. Roomy and airy. The top was next, and it was similar: no buttons or zips, just a fine string at the neck and a belt of the same material at the waist. I took off the bathrobe from underneath before tying the belt, thus maintaining an element of modesty. The woman did not take her eyes off me. Afraid I would escape no doubt. I handed my captor the robe which she inspected closely before rolling it up and placing it into her backpack. She stood again and indicated the rope and the stick in each of her hands: ‘Ok, I’ll go quietly.’ I said. She nodded. We left to rejoin the others.

When we returned, the Dodger was unbound and dressed in the same peasant/buccaneer style as I was. On him, however, the pants finished half-way up his shins. I noticed that his guard was only as tall as me. My captor apparently asked the taller of the men why he hadn’t given the poor boy his trousers. In response the former defended himself by showing her the emptiness of his backpack. She reached up and gave him a smack upside the head. He looked shamefaced. Hamish on the other hand, was looking stormy-faced. He challenged the woman about something, raising his tied hands and indicating the Dodger and me. She rejected his plea to be untied, rolling up the Dodger’s bathrobe and placing it in the taller man’s back pack. Then she organised us into a walking party. Two men first, then the Dodger and the woman, Hamish and myself and then the short guard. Jasper walked with the front men and the Dodger. I felt betrayed.

‘Can we ask what’s going on yet, Hamish?’ I asked quietly.

‘They’re taking us back to the village. She’ll get a reward for us. Well, me at least. She thinks you two are patsies. They don’t seem to sympathise with the fact that I have nothing to barter with if I can’t bring anything with me.’

I processed that. ‘You stole the bathrobes!’

‘You would have preferred to be naked? They were drying on bushes at the back of one of the dwellings. Clothing is pretty valuable here, with the Clan taking so much of the seed back to our world. There are fewer raw materials for the necessities here.’

‘Like clothes and houses and food?’

‘Not food.’ I realised as he spoke that I hadn’t eaten or felt hungry since arriving in the land. This was a bomb-shell.

‘No food. No need for food. How can you survive then?’

‘The land sustains you. That’s why it’s best to go barefoot. If your body is in touch with the land, you will be sustained. And healed.’

‘Wow that’s amazing. Everybody should get to come here. No more sickness. No more hunger.’

‘I told you. Only those related to the original travellers can come.’

‘So who were the originals?’

“McKenzie, Rhodes, Mossman. And of course Friday. There was another, but he never took up the option.’

‘What about the Clan? How can they come?’

‘Your family was responsible for that. You let them use the Gateway and as I said, once you are through, you can keep going through.’

‘I didn’t do anything. Why do you say it was me?’ My indignation was aroused, but there was something else that he had said that unsettled me. I would come back to it. He stumbled. I caught his arm, and in the process found myself looking into his eyes. Hamish looked back and smiled.

‘Here there is no difference. Your family. You.’ We stopped moving and I stayed swimming in the blueness of his eyes. I liked it there and Hamish made no effort to break away. I could read him I found. I imagined that I could see to the core of who he was, and that I would like the person there. I was drawn to him, and felt the reciprocity of that emotion blazing from a hidden place inside me. The guard behind us gave Hamish an unromantic nudge with his stick. Hamish complained in the language, but moved on, breaking the moment.

I fell back to regroup. This would not do. Head-boy at C’port. Tubby book-worm. He was without a doubt the first guy who had ever shown any interest in me of a romantic nature. Then again. Maybe it wasn‘t romantic. Maybe he was just keeping his hand in. There didn’t seem to be a lot of competition. So, I could live it up and hang the consequences, or be sensible now and give it up. Give what up? was clamouring to be heard somewhere deep in my mind. I’ve read too many books I decided.

So it was that I hadn’t noticed that we were headed back the way we had come until this moment. We were already at the zigzag. I looked down to see a stormy-faced Dodger on the next stretch. He had seen the whole episode and for some reason this made me feel guilty. ‘I really, really want to go home.’ I said to the world in general. Nobody responded.

Thursday, December 15, 2005

Where's the novel?

If you are interested in the novel that I started here, you can find it continued on www.ennisnovel.blogspot.com

It has changed between postings, but I am committed to posting a chapter a day until it's finished. Although I can't promise this.

One thing I have learned is the value of finishing things.

I will now try to astound my children by adding a link to this site.

Monday, December 12, 2005

Chapter 2

Don’t you love that euphemism. ‘Problematic’. It explains nothing, and leaves me with a really deep sense of uneasiness.

‘I’ve never had this problem before when I’ve taken my dog for a walk. How come today everything changes? And there is also the ‘Who are you?’ question to answer.’ I feel safer with one hand on Jasper’s coat, so I stay close to the ground.

‘Hamish McKenzie. School captain at Seaport. Next year anyway. Who are you?’

The Dodger pushes his way into the eye contact thing that I’ve got going with Hamish. ‘Doesn’t matter. Just get us home.’

Jasper can look after himself for a bit. I have so got to be a part of whatever is going on between these two. I stand up as Hamish replies: ‘I told you. It’s problematic. You can’t just go back. You have to go around.’

‘So take us around.’ I say. I would really like to get going. I’d like to know more about the Seaport captain too, but that can wait until I’m reunited with my clothes. I look down the hill where Hamish came from hoping to see some mode of transport, like a bus or a car or a …. Well, it doesn’t matter, because there’s nothing, just more grass. ‘How did you get here?’

‘I traversed,’ he says. This, no doubt, is in answer to my last question. ‘but I can’t take passengers back. We’ll have to go to an exit gateway. The nearest one is about 10 kilometres down that valley.’ It doesn’t really matter where he is point because I'm not looking. I am getting a nasty feeling about this place and the: ‘can’t bring anything through’ business. ‘If we get started now we should make it by Lights Out.’

The Dodger asks the obvious question: ‘Why should we go with you?’

‘Well, Douglass, there are dangers here that you know nothing about, and the first step to avoiding those dangers is to get off this hill top before much more time passes. This is not a safe place. The Clan use this entry point too. And,’ he added as we both open our mouths, ‘I’ll fill you in on the Clan and where and why as we go, but go we must.’

Jasper is already on his way down the hill. Afterwards I wonder how come he knows which way to go, but at this moment I am still in shock at the thought of walking 10 kilometres in bare feet and a borrowed bathrobe. Hamish follows Jasper, and I , in shock, follow Hamish. The Dodger takes a little bit longer, but then he too starts the walk down the hill. He catches up with me and whispers, ‘Have you noticed his feet?’

I look at the back in front of me, and lower to his feet. They’re bare, like ours. I look further up. He’s wearing a sad-looking pair of corduroys and a colourless cotton shirt. ‘So, if you can’t bring anything with you, where did the clothes come from?’

Hamish looks back over his shoulder at me, smiles and answers, ‘I got them at the Market. You like them? I store them here when I go back. You’ll have to do the same with anything you get here.’ A market. So there’s an economy here.

‘Where are we? I mean really. You did say you’d tell us.’ Maybe if he talks he’ll slow down, because he’s keeping up a cracking good pace that is taxing my short little legs. Jasper’s black and whiteness is still keeping ahead of us though, and the Dodger is quiet behind me. He’s not even breathing fast.

Hamish looks back at where we came from, and then back at me. ‘If we can make it to the tree line before anybody else arrives I’ll tell you then.’ Tree line. Okay, I can see trees up ahead. And I don’t like the look of fear on his face as he looked behind me. I’d look back too, but, one foot in front of the other is all I can manage at the moment.

I do breathing, and trying not to slow the Dodger down and pretending that I am used to walking a distance that has got to be farther than my place to school, for which trip I take a bus, thank you. Almost at the first tree, I have to stop for a breather. I turn back to look where we have come from, and see a sudden light on the hilltop.

‘Get down and don’t move.’ shouts Hamish, showing us how. His head is close to mine. ‘If we stay still, they may not notice us.’ I look where he is looking. There was no-one, and now there are at least three, possibly five naked men on the hill. They confer and then move off in the opposite direction from us. ‘Moss men.’ Hamish spits out. At least, that’s what I think I hear. ‘They’re off to their cache. We’ll have to pick up the pace. They’ll be headed this way once they have their clothes and weapons.’

I feel the need for a non sequitur. ‘Do you know, my feet aren’t sore. Even though I’ve been walking in bare feet for over an hour, my feet aren’t even aching.’

‘Yeah, that’s the land. No need for shoes here. And it’s been 20 minutes at the most. Let’s go.’
We get back onto our marvellously restored feet and I look back at the Dodger. Then I pull my robe closed.

Chapter 1

I am using these holidays to get started on my first novel. This has been a long time coming, just ask any of my sisters. It's a work in progress, and the original can change without these entries changing, so there may be inconsistencies.

Prize for the first one to recognise the source material.

Now it begins.
Just finished a book and now I can get back into real life and see what my absence has done to the world. Last time I looked, last time I lost myself in a good book (actually a BAD book) nothing much had changed by the time I returned to reality. But this time, maybe this time I will be able to change the world by willing it to be so.

So to regroup: Who am I?
Where am I?
When am I?

Oh yes: Janice Rhodes. Small town, Australia. 2005. I am (yes, I still am, I just checked) a rather tubby 17 year old college student. It’s a Friday of the Christmas holidays at the end of my Year 11. These holidays I am going to lose weight and not read any more books because when I do, I eat and don’t exercise.

Why don’t they make it possible to read and exercise at the same time. Sure I could buy an MP3 player (with what money?) but I don’t want to hear the words that are written. I want it to be my own voice in my head, not somebody else’s. Closest I can get to reading and exercising is when I can walk around the school yard with my nose in a book. Much nicer place to be, any book than the school yard at my school. I’m going to write a book called “Exercising the Mind & the Body: Books to Lose Weight to.”

Small town not that small really. There are five high schools. And St Hell-duh’s. And THE School, Seaport. But they don’t count. Nobody I know goes there. Nobody I want to know. Sure the Dodger from over the road goes, but he doesn’t really fit the mold at S’port anyway. He won a music scholarship and now he spends all the time we used to spend wallowing together in books playing cello, practising cello, writing for cello. He’s a year younger than me anyway. Bet he hasn’t even finished the last Hairy Porter book.

I gave up Hairy Porter for a while, but then I went to see the movie of the 3rd book (I think) and had to finish them. Read the last two in a marathon as soon as I finished my last assignment for the year. Ah, the joy of a good book after the agony of Molecular Chemistry. Nobody but a true bookaholic can fully understand the sensuality of being other. In a world that is other.

Not mothers that’s for sure.
“Coming, mum. Yes, I know it’s my turn. Yes, I’ve got my washing.” Turf some of the clothes from under my bed into the basket. Unfold them first. I learned the hard way about the sin of putting clothes straight out of the folded washing pile into the washing basket.

Down the stairs. washing in the laundry. Get Jasper’s lead. Attach to dog and out the door. “Bye, mum. I’ll walk him to the shop and back. Anything you need? No. Bye then.”

One day I waited for the answer to that and I had to struggle back from the shops with two shopping bags loaded full of stuff she could buy more cheaply from the Supermarket on her way back from work. I've got enough money for a coke and, well today I won't buy a packet of chips because I am being good about my weight. Maybe just a small bag. A 20 minute walk with Jasper full of beans and I will have walked off a small packet of chips.

Out of the house, down the steps out to the front of our section. Jasper checks out the lamp post, before tearing off down the hill. I think it’s really funny that he has to discover everytime we go for a walk that the lead only goes so far. Ha, that far, Jasper. My arm is tugged out of its socket, but I compensate. At least I know how long the lead is by now. ‘You are so funny, Jazz.’

‘Why is it funny for your dog to get choked?’

‘What’s it to you, Dodger? He’s my dog.’ The Dodger stands up from the front steps of his house and comes towards us. I think it’s him. He’s a lot taller than I remember, but it must be him. ‘Anyway, he isn’t choked. See he’s happy to keep going.’ Jasper has discovered the next lamp post. So why is The Dodger still walking beside me? I’m walking down our road, and he’s still here. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Shops. Same as you.’

‘How do you know I’m going to the shops?’

‘You always walk Jasper to the shops. Alison walks him to the park and lets him run around. Your dad walks him around the block. Your mum never walks him and you walk him to the shops, buy a bottle of Coke and walk him back.’

What is with this guy? I stare at him like the stalker he so obviously is. “How could you know all this?’

‘I watch. I remember. I analyse.’ Taps his temple at this last bit. He’s got the same little round John Lennon glasses he’s always had. His hair is dark and wavy, a bit longer than fashionable really. He doesn’t look as though he’s turned into a loony. No more than he did when we used to hang around together. That must be five, six years ago now.

‘What’s your analysis of the Rhodes family then, Genius?’

‘Pretty normal. Pretty caring. Under the thumb of Mrs Rhodes.’

I have to laugh. This is SO right. Normal. My family is so normal it’s scary. I’ll never be able to do anything about the way the world is because my family has given me nothing to toughen me up for the trials I will experience in the world. First sign of trouble, I’ll be calling for my mummy to put it right. ‘Normal is SO boring.’

He doesn’t laugh with me. He doesn’t even look at me when I say this, and I remember why that’s not a very kind thing to say to the Dodger just now. Remember Mum telling Dad about Mr Douglass’ suicide last summer. Shit, must be almost exactly a year ago. I’m too embarrassed to say anything else. Finally he says: ‘Boring would be nice.’

We walk in silence for a while. Jasper marks every second lamp post. The Dodger keeps pace with me. I decide it’s time for a non sequitur. ‘How was school this year?’

“Shit house.’

Well, that’s pretty clear. Still I’m a wee bit shocked.

‘Sorry. It just was. Failed everything except music. Not sure if I’m back there next year. Don’t care either. You?’

This sounds like a really good time to rave on about the injustices of the education system as demonstrated on the campus of our local state high school. Stupid critical literacy. Pathetic QCS. Moronic Scientific Processes. My diatribe gets us to the end of Seager St. Jasper disappears down the driveway of the last house, then the first strange thing happens.

I’m still raving on about, I think by this stage it was that good old stand-by, the uniform, and waiting with half my brain for the lead to go taut, but IT DOESN’T. One second Jasper is pulling full-strength on the lead, barking as he chases I don’t know what down this strange driveway, then there’s silence and the lead recoils. I stop. So does the Dodger. We both look at the end of the lead. The end that was attached by a pretty strong catch to Jasper’s collar. The collar is still attached, but there is no Jasper inside it.

‘Where’s your dog?’

“That’s never happened before.’ We both speak at the same time. I repeat: ‘It’s never happened before. The collar is so tight we have to undo it to get it off.’ I start walking down the driveway. The Dodger hesitates then pulls me back. He actually puts his hand on my shoulder and pulls me around to face him. ‘Janice, I don’t think you should go down there. You know whose place this is don’t you?’

‘No, and I don’t care. My dog’s down here.’

I pull away. He follows me, whispering, ‘It’s McKenzie. It’s the McKenzie’s place. You can’t go there. He’s a nutcase.’ I turn to look at him. Look up really. The Dodger does not scare easy, but he really looks white. I look around at the driveway I am half way down. Sure, the grass is as high as my waist, the trees cast a deep shadow over the rest of the path and I think I see a movement against the grimy windows, but my dog has slipped his collar when he’s never done it before. ‘I just want to get Jasper. Won’t take long.’

So the story continues. The heroine has a quest and right on her side. She has her unwilling companion and a mind steeped in narrative causality. She should have known better than to have uttered the magic formula. It ALWAYS takes long.

The Dodger and I begin the long walk down the driveway beside the McKenzie’s house. We walk into the gloom and I call Jasper’s name quietly but in a carrying voice. “Jasper, you dumb dog, come here.’ The Dodger even whistles. Stupid really. Jasper has never answered to a whistle. Still it shows the Dodger’s helping, I suppose. Darker yet, and further than it could possibly be and we are still walking down the McKenzie’s driveway. I look back and there is the street with traffic passing and all. I can go back at any time, just as soon as the stupid pooch is caught.

‘Janice. Don’t you think we should have got there by now.’ This had occurred to me, and I’ve seen the Dodger’s looks back at the road too. But it’s too stupid to believe that we could possibly still be walking up a section that is no deeper than any other in the street. I keep walking, but look over my shoulder at the Dodger, who is looking back at the road, and the next strange thing happens.

I’m going to write my impresssions down in the order that I feel them because this is my story and I feel like it.

You know that feeling you get when you’re at the end of a really good book and you don’t want it to end. You want to just stay in the book forever because it’s such an exciting place to be. You can feel it and smell it and understand the way life works in here. Well, go back a couple of pages to when you know you are going to feel this and you are living with the denouement of the story on one level and the regret at leaving with another part. Well, that feeling is the first thing I noticed: a feeling of regret that something is almost ended.

The next thing is the naked man standing in front of me. Nice butt, pale skin, hairy legs. Of course, when he turns around and looks at me, I eventually notice that it’s the Dodger.

‘Nice.’ he says, looking at me.

So then I notice that I am also naked. There is far too much of me to cover with two hands, so I don’t bother. I turn my back on him and scream. And there is the next thing. We are not in the ‘hood anymore. Not in a city. Not anywhere that I recognize as part of my small town, Australia. It’s like the quintessential middle of nowhere.

We’re on a hill. There’s grass of the way past hay-making kind, and in the distance are mountains. Looks like something from the McKenzie Country in New Zealand, except that the wind is warm. Just as well, considering the amount of naked flesh I have on display. Underfoot the ground is warm also. I’ve done a full circle by now and come back to the sight of my childhood friend also gazing at the scenery. Not.

‘Don’t look at me, Dodger! Where are we?’ There is one part of me that has appreciated the compliment implicit in his look, but that part is way, way down below the panic level that is now in full control. ‘And how do we get out of here? And why haven’t we got any clothes on?’

‘That’s the effect of the Gateway, sorry. You can’t bring anything with you when you come through. Put these on.’ That was not the Dodger. There is someone else here. Sure enough, this guy with clothes on, and some old dressing gowns over his arm, is walking up the hill. I’ve never seen him before, so I choose the lesser of two evils and hide behind the Dodger. No way is there enough of him to cover all of me, though. The Dodger is still amazingly silent. It’s up to me to say all the expected lines: ‘Who the hell are you? Where are we? Where are my clothes?’ then after a little thought. ‘And why is my dog here?’

Because there is Jasper, trotting along behind the dude with the bathrobes, which, thank goodness, finally find their way from the stranger’s arm to my body. And the Dodger’s. I bend down to scratch behind the dog’s ear. I am just as pleased to see him as he is to see me. He’s too heavy to pick up, so it’s from a position closer to the ground than I like, that I get my first appraising look at the only person here who knows anything about this place.

He and the Dodger are looking eye to eye, so the new dude must be a good six foot tall. He’s blond and good-looking in an Orlando Bloom as Legolais way. I’ll analyse that a bit later, but at the moment, my residual embarrassment nullifies the awkwardness that usually happens when I meet spunky guys.

Finally the Dodger speaks: ‘G’day Hamish.’

‘John. Didn’t know you lived around here.’

‘And where is here?’

‘Oh yes. Well it’s still sort of the same place. When you go back, you’ll still be in Seager St. This place is just a bit further over than where we normally live.’

One part of me is glad that this new guy appears to know where we are, but the rest of his explanation is surprisingly unsatisfactory. I won’t even go into what I think about the fact that the Dodger knows him, or that he called him by his first and despised name. He doesn’t appear to be going to add anything else, so I cue him to the rest of the questions: ‘How did we get here? Not that your explanation as to where here is is in any way satisfactory. But a bit more information and a ride home wouldn’t go amiss.’

He looks at me. So does the Dodger. There is something going on here that my presence has recalled them from. ‘Ah yes. Well, your dog found his way through the Gateway because he’s a border collie, and then you got through because you belong to him. Getting home could be problematic.’

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

5 Book tag

My husband has tagged me to take part in the latest blog meme. Just trace back the links through the referees listed in each blog.

Anyway here's my response to the tag...

1. Total number of books I own
2. The last book I bought
3. The last book I read
4. Five books that mean a lot to me
5. Tag five people and have them do this on their blogs.

1. Total number of books I own would be about 2500. That's all of us together. We had to shed quite a few when we moved over here from NZ, and we have been through stages when money required that we use the library rather than buy books. But libraries just don't seem to have the variety they used to. We still have kids' books, including some that I use in teaching at high school. We ahve three bookcases in our entry way, two in the lounge, one in each bedroom and one more at the end of the hallway.

2. The last book I bought? I bought five remaindered books for $20 and one other for $22.95. The five were written by Ed McBain, John Nance, Amanda Quick, Nancy Taylor Rosenberg and Ann Purser.

3. The last book I read was the $22.95 one, 'Middlesex' by Jeffrey Eugenidis, about a hermaphrodite and the immigrant experience in Detroit during the twentieth century. It was a good read, and it is holiday time.

4. Five books that mean a lot to me.
1. Chambers Dictionary. We have a copy on the bookshelf next to the dining table and it is often referred to to check etymology, to clarify meanings or to settle, or at least upgrade, arguments. Also very handy for Scrabble games.

2. Edmonds Cook Book. This is an essential book for any self-respecting kiwi. We have two copies of the original version, one for microwave copy and one for kids. That and anything by Alison Holst is the mark of a true NZer. I do still refer to it and in my coming purge of books, it will not be touched.

3. F Scott Peck's "In Search of Stones" I have read many of Scott Peck's book and ... not enjoy, perhaps respect the autobiographical nature of this book. I enjoyed being present on a holiday to the UK, and the glimpse of the unknown that it afforded.

4. Microserfs by Douglas Coupland. More than any other of his books, this one when I read it, I went Yes that was the nineties, or what I imagined it was like for those who were in the right place at the right time for the nineties. Also the first book I read that took 'seriously' the idea of writing in a style that reflected the postmodern nature of communication.

5. Adrian Plass, "The Sacred Diary" series. I really felt that God liked me and that God could take care of the world. I enjoy a good laugh, and the laughs were good.

Saturday, June 11, 2005

Names our Mothers called us

I am really really bad with names. Do you think it could be related to the fact that my name is unusual?

Not in the 'misspelled hence unusual' or 'throw in some silent letters' way, but in the honest 'unusual but defensible'/related to your ancestry way. Is it only people with honestly unusual names who are 'blessed' with this particular arrogance, or is it also pedantic teachers who suffer professional exposure to the names that people land their children with.

Think about it. In most occupations names can be learned and then filed for future use, but in teaching every year you have to learn another 30X5 = 150 names and the faces that they belong to. I am so happy when I have the same student turn up the next year or so later. But it doesn't happen often enough. And kids start high school and expect you to have learned their names by osmosis as I'm sure primary school teachers do with only one class each year.

I have also found that sometimes I learn a name for someone and tie it to them and then the next week thay have turned into another person, as is the wont of teenagers. I have to confess that I get types mixed up. There is a stream of blonde girls who, although unique, could be any of them called Rachel or Samantha or Courtney or Alex or Emma or Jamie or Natasha or Emily or Sarah or Anna. Sometimes they are not even blonde, but they resemble each other in some 'bright young thing' manner. And if they sit next to each other, well, they deserve to be mistaken for each other.

It's not the spelling. I can remember things like Jaymie or Raechel or even, God help the poor boy, Micheal, but tying them to faces can be problematic. Then there are double ups or triple ups. I have a class with three Lukes and I still haven't worked out the surnames. Two Emilys in another class, both well-behaved, intelligent young women. Two Alexs - one boy, one girl and two Jesses - both boys, but that doesn't seem to help.

It's halfway through the school year here, and it seems to just get worse. Maybe it has to do with turning 50.