Pears, Poetry & Pond Swimming - a private diary

 

A while back, I made poached peers in red wine. I found the recipe on BBC food. I chose it because it was the simplest one, contained the fewest ingredients. And I liked the fact that you boiled the shit out of six naked pears in a whole bottle of red wine! I bought an organic merlot for this purpose because the label was pretty and it was on special for a cool fourteen 99. I also bought cinnamon sticks, which made me think of Michael Ondaatje’s highly-scented love poem “The Cinnamon Peeler’s Wife”. Michael O is a Sri Lankan born Canadian.

 

I really want to go to Sri Lanka one day. It would be a research eat-pray-love trip. I want to set a book in the tropics. Perhaps on a jungle high tea plantation then on the surf-edged pearl-sand south coast. I imagined the air to smell of cinnamon or cloves or wet black pepper – some sort of moist spice. And the trees would be enormous, cream barked with large, shiny leaves and burgeoning boughs heavy with monkeys, no doubt, boa constrictors too. What is the biological name of monkeys … primates … simians … cousins … something. I like this as a technique – dropping in biological connections into prose just for a swerve. Snakes Serpentes, Cow bovine, cat feline, horse equine. Make me look cleverer. It’s so easy to jump on the internet and look stuff up. Where was I? Oh yes, the poached pears. Those lil mofos took so much boiling. At least one hour, when the recipe stated 20-30 minutes. But I wanted them tender to the bite, no crunch in the middle. On and on my cauldron bubbled. When I finally decided enough was enough I took them out. I still had to turn up the heat for the next step - reducing the syrup into a sticky mess to pour over the awaiting plated pears. Well, that was not going to happen in a flash either. My Nana, who was a terrible cook, would have added cornflour. She did this once to scrambled eggs. My grandpa didn’t complain. The pears did look resplendent, in their burgundy glory at 9.45pm. Coronation worthy – regal purple orbs. Weirdly these pears started off red. They’re red-skinned pears. The Queen of Pears. You wouldn’t say King.

 

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The next day, after my Zoom poetry workshop, I tried to meditate but failed. #CowboyTheKitty was snuggled with me on the bed. I watched him like a newborn and I fell further in love. I decided while I lay there watching mindless yet enjoyable IG reels to go to Lake Hayes for a walk at three. I’d try and get all metaphorical in the late autumn sun walking along the lake track as it rises into scrub and this random, high-fenced deer farm. Only when I got there the sun was on the wrong side of the lake. Never ask me to read a map. I hummed and haa’d and decided I wanted an incline so I set off into the shade anyhoo. I was passed by old farts on e-bikes barely peddling. I told them telepathically that if they want to get their steps up, they should brisk walk. I saw nothing of note except a small dog turd full of corn kernels on a rock, actually it was three terrier-sized turds on a rock, which was schist.

 

Soon I turned round and walked back towards the sun, when I passed my favourite dipping spot of the summer I decided I’d do it. Dunk in the lake. 1st May on the morrow, but hey. I collected my towel and old dressing gown from the car and doubled back. A dude with a number two and an overly pomaded hipster beard was sitting at my picnic table talking loudly on the phone on speaker about an intense domestic dispute he was having with his partner. I moved further down. The surface of the lake rippled. Two black swans, vine necked red beaked, fished metres from shore. I slipped out of my walking clothes. I’d put my bikini pants on just in case. My black sports top would do. I walked in up to my waist then submerged to my neck. A year back I would have screamed or at least panted but I have conditioned myself to the sudden chill of freshwater alpine ponds. I swam a few strokes then tried to stand. I couldn’t touch the bottom. There is always the slight fear I might pass out and drown. I turned to shore. Breast-stroked. My ovaries were ahead of me in outer Mongolia. Other parts had already reached the capital - Ulan Bator (the coldest capital in the world FYI.) However, a certain warmth envelopes a chilled wet body returning to air. An atmospheric crush. Like warm custard on prickled kiwis. Don’t ever serve me quince.

 

I’d tried to do some homework on my walk earlier. Get more imaginative with imagery.

 

The stream - an oasis of moisture for thirsty eels

Seed head on weed - seed dispenser of a future spring

Autumn poplar tree - Tall lady with a packet blonde dye job

Tall tree - Lighthouse beacon for birds of prey

Dog shit - Even a man’s best friend poos. Or. No mammal digests corn. Or for god sake don’t step in it.

 

Alas, I’m still at kindergarten but you never know what you’ll see - if you open your eyes. 

On Writing Not Twerking

For those readers who regularly follow my blog you will know I post weekly. Mostly on a Monday, sometimes a Tuesday but somehow that has slipped back to Saturday. Soz peeps.

Part of me starts to ache if I haven’t posted on time. I’m a lycra clad power walker with a perm hanging out for an endorphin fix. 

So why the hold up? 

Thing is, I’ve been writing some very emotionally draining stuff over the last ten days; a short story involving teenage boys, a party and a car accident and a non-fiction piece about the accidental death of a family member. 

I started to wonder how on earth crime writers do it? Get down to the nitty gritty of death and destruction without becoming drowned in despair? 

Because my fictional characters were like a gaggle of newborn babes. Triplet cling-ons. I had no peace. They invaded my space by day. Then they insisted on sharing the bed, waking me in the night demanding to be fed and coddled. Re-write-dreaming is not relaxing.

Then I moved on to the TRUE story. Digging up an old grief-bone buried for safe keeping. Reliving it all again and some more. Exhausting though it was, I also felt honoured to have given my brother my time. But I started to worry about more than narrative arc. I worried whether his story should actually be shared.

The next day this quote by Neil Gaiman popped up on my newsfeed:

“Be proud of your mistakes. Well, proud may not be exactly the right word, but respect them, treasure them, be kind to them. And, more than that, and more important than that, make them. Make mistakes. Make great mistakes, make wonderful mistakes, make glorious mistakes. Better to make a hundred mistakes than stare at a blank piece of paper too scared to do anything wrong.”

Timely encouragement, not that my story was a mistake, it was more of a risk. I spoke to family members and pushed on. Sent it off and finally got a good night’s sleep.

Then I tried to blog. Everything I started to write felt as flat and lifeless a French crepe on the streets of Paris without Nutella. If my words don’t bounce back at me full of joie de vivre I send them to the naughty chair toute-de-suite. 

I couldn’t even think of a tantalizing recipe to tickle your taste buds. And I didn’t think the faint hearted would want to hear about my cure for an egg bound hen.

I had mentor, Steve B sitting on my shoulder, ‘never write, I can’t think what to write about?’ Arggh. 

The days ticked by…

I obviously needed fresh air. The great Central Otago countryside. Clouds were threatening from the west and a cold front, with snow to 300 metres, was marching in from the south. However the sun was out, so I saddled my trusty horse, Star and headed down to the river. 

After a couple of steep descents I rode along an ancient bullock trail, where if I do a bit of omming and imagine myself in a scratchy woollen riding habit, riding side saddle, I can be a pioneering Scottish lassy heading to town for a sack of flour. Given that I spent the first twenty minutes trying to stop Star from taking off one handed, while gassing to my girlfriend about her love life, I couldn’t switch off and get into character.

I rode on past old gold mining tailings, down the twisty track to the wooden bridge with one plank missing under the spindly oaks. Instead of negotiating the muddy bank and creek bed I swung around, still determined to let Star’s easy rhythm and the solitude excise me from my mental baggage. My thoughts a spaghetti junction of the disturbing kind.

Did I need something really Zen? A good session in a floatation tank for example?

Coming out of the river flat woods, I brushed past a tree, on closer inspection I spied the delicate silvery buds of pussy willow. Halting, I plucked as many stems as I could, with Star jig-jigging and stuffed them into my saddle bag. 

How cool is spring I thought? Reemerging from winter hibernation; no care whether the world is watching. No care what the world thinks. Lookout. Coming, ready or not. 

When I got back it was spitting. I quickly sponged down, curry combed, towel dried and covered Star; lathered from our 2 hour galloping giddy up. 

I was starving. Mmmm, I’ll have last night’s perfectly balanced miso/udon/seaweed/baby kale/leftover roast chicken soup. I was one of Pavlov’s dogs. My saliva welled and almost dripped from my mouth.

Then as I was getting my warmed broth from the above head height microwave kazam:

I had to settle for the dregs in the fridge: mainly noodles no meat. 

I ate in front of my blank computer screen, feeling the temperature drop. Soon the chill rain started. I ran out and double rugged my gallant steed and gave him more hay. 

I returned soaked to the skin. I showered and made a cup of peppermint tea. Then I gave in to the best brain fueling, writer-on-the-verge antidote I know.

I read a book.