My Brushes.

I thought: " No one has ever held my brushes." I was thinking of two in particular. One was a white satin 5/0 detail brush. the other was a pure red sable no.4 -flat. They were the brushes I had been using to work on the painting of Dal's shirt that night. I handed them to you. I put them into your hands. You reached out and took them. I wanted another human being to experience what I had experienced. I felt the privilege  of having been the only one  to ever use these brushes, but at the same time, I felt it as a kind of loneliness. There was something religious about handing you the brushes and I witnessed it  as if observing it as the action of a third person. I imagined that you moved them around in your hand or hands and experienced them as I had. Caressed them and formed a relationship with them as I had. I have worn out so many brushes. I have been the sole user and have used them until they are useless. All used up. My brushes.  No one else ever touches them.

A Taste of George

My dog is black

What do you think of that?

His breath is smelly,

And I rub his belly.

My dog is back there.

He follows me everywhere,

Like my shadow.

Such a loyal fellow.

George is my dog’s name.

He’s becoming quite insane.

He said, “Bite my ear.”

He said he had no fear.

But George’s ear tastes foul.

I bit it just now.

The moral to the tale is this.

A dog’s request you should resist!

On Saturday I went to the pet shop for some chicken feed. The young shop assistant you atttended to me claimed that the laying mash she offered for sale was the mash she feeds to her three chickens and that they lay five eggs a day! Could this be true?

The young man who waited to take the large bag of mash to my car was named Billy Sleep. He was tall, quite heavily set and somnulent, his eyes partly obscured by a long somewhat greasy fringe. A nice boy. Very chatty.

Billy Sleep. If this were not a lived experience I would perhaps wonder whether the name was the invention of a novelist.

I teach creative writing to middle school students and recently offered them the opportunity to write about themselves after first modelling a story about myself with obvious untruths in it. I did this to demonstrate that writers sometimes wrote fact and sometimes fiction and sometimes a combination of the two. By lessons end some of the students had concluded that it was easier to write fiction  because facts were restricting. You could make the details of the story or description fit the words which came to you easily, when writing fiction, but when fact dictates more words than you readily know, the task is much harder.

In my first lesson with this semester's cohort I wrote the verse for a poem to model the form and process for them. In the verse I said my hair was blue. It had to rhyme with true so why not? This gave us the opportunity to discuss the wisdom of interweaving fact and fiction  in our writing. We decided it was also quite a good idea as it made us laugh. It engaged us.  A successful writer must engage. Success, in the first lesson!

My Dog George

My dog George and I walked happily along the street. The day was crisp. It was Autumn, our favourite season. The cool air was invigorating, bird song greeted us, and a breeze played gently in the tree tops, causing movement and a rustling refrain. Then, as George tired, we paused on a park bench to watch a lively willy wag tail dart here and there, in an entertaining dance. Once the performance was over, we stood to continue our walk.

However another dog - a large animal, unmuzzled and unrestrained – shot out of nowhere. George, a small dog , took fright immediately. He ran into the surrounding bush with the large hound in pursuit. Imagining the speed of the larger dog my heart beat wildly and my anxiety momentarily paralysed me. I stood frozen with fright. Then I found my legs.

Aware as I was that a pug is no match for this large animal I rushed in the direction of the chase. Dogs are enlivened by rabbits running ahead of them and how like a rabbit George must have seemed to the larger animal! Yet I could hear my little friend yelping as he ran, which gave me hope that he was holding out and I ran harder in the direction of his call. I held a branch in my hand that I had only minutes before retrieved from the foot path, and envisioned a fight with the greyhound which must surely result in George’s safety.

Alas, however, as time went by George’s call became less distinct. My heart sank, yet I ran on. If he had any chance of survival I must continue the chase. I must quicken my pace. But time was running out. My little dog would be tiring. Thus I was forced to find the strength to continue. And then it happened. In the distance I saw the greyhound, stationary, head bowed, with a small limp cream coloured furry animal in its mouth. I fell to my knees and sobbed uncontrollably, before composing myself. With a deep breath I stood. I moved forward reluctantly, on weak legs, raising the branch above my head. Sickened and distraught I saw the greyhound munch on his prey, oblivious to my approach.

But someone was watching. From the entrance of a small concrete pipe I heard a frantic wimpering. Could it be my little friend? Sure enough, George, hot, distressed and panting desperately, with burrs and scratches on his ears and nose and tail, crawled clumsily out of his refuge and scrambled into my arms. I stood in a state of stunned relief. Clinging together we willed ourselves to walk onward to find the greyhound, casually chewing on a soft toyt. The little furry plaything had saved my dog’s life. We turned homeward, happy and relieved.

Humphrey Meets the School Bus

Humphrey was so excited. He could hear his mummy’s school bus coming down the road. She would be at the end of their driveway soon.

Humphrey and Spot the cat set off together. It was a sunning day. A slight breeze blew Humphrey’s fur, this way and that.

Humphrey’s ears trailed behind his bead as he walked down the drive way.

“ This is my favourite time of day, Spot!” he said cheerfully. “ I have so much to tell Rosey. I chased some kangaroos and ran after the family car when they went to the shops, today …”

Spot smiled. Humphrey was her friend. She liked to see him happy.

Humphrey and Spot stood like soldiers at the bus stop and in only a few moments the bus arrived.

“ Rosey decided not to come home, today, Humphrey old boy!” joked the driver as he opened the door of the bus.

But Rosey burst out of the bus with her school bog over her shoulder! She shrieked with delight to see her pets so patiently waiting. She scooped Spot up in her arms and held Humphrey’s head against her thigh.

“Humphrey,” she said. “I have so much to tell you! “

And she did. It had been such a busy day at school that Humphrey didn’t have a chance to tell his stories.

Rosey talked until bedtime! And Humphrey smiled while he listened.

Lucy Loses the Sausage

Lucy, the pug, usually likes to spend time in the kitchen when her owner is cooking.

From time to time a small piece of cheese will be thrown her way, and if she is quick enough to beat young Jeremy, she eats it up quickly. Yum!


At other times something falls on the floor accidentally. Old George tells her about the time their owner was carrying a plate of salmon rissoles to the table. Miraculously, and happily, all of the rissoles slid from the plate onto the floor, for no apparent reason. "What a feast that was!" George tells his companions. "Yum!"


That was before Lucy was born, and she really doesn't believe him. Yesterday though, her owner was cooking four sausages. Suddenly the smallest sausage landed on the floor right in front of Lucy's nose. It smelt so good!


However, just as Lucy was about to take the sausage in her sharp little teeth, a human hand reached down and snatched it back. She was annoyed, but that is not the end of the story.


As the day wore on she found opportunities to sit at the feet of her owner. At such times she would casually talk about her day...


"What happened to the sausage?"


Later, in front of the television, as her owners watched and discussed the television news, Lucy was keen to contribute...


"What happened to the sausge?"


Last thing at night her owner took the pugs down stairs to their beds. Just before lights out Lucy made eye contact to say her last words for the day, as she always did ...


"What happened to the sausage?"


Next morning, the pugs were eager to greet the day as the sun was already shining. Their owners had slept in because it was a Sunday. When the door was opened Lucy ran up the stairs as usual and started to enjoy her day in the big house.


"Hello, Lucy!" her owner said.

"What happened to the sausage?" Lucy said.

"Lucy! You are like a dog with a bone," her owner replied.


That gave Lucy an idea. The rest of the day she spent happily chewing her bone.


She chewed it ...

and chewed it...

and chewed it ..

and chewed it.


She chewed her bone with such complete concentration

that she forgot all about the sausage

and everything was quiet in the household again.

Apart from the sound of chewing, that is!

Unconditional Love ...

It is said that babies love those whose voices they hear while still in the womb. I am prepared to accept that that sometimes isn't the case but certainly it was the case for me. I love my mother's voice. I not only heard that voice while still in the womb but felt it's vibrations and rhythms while my body was part of hers.  I love my mother. I love her so much I don't know how it will be when she dies. What will I say at her funeral? Surely what I feel is beyond words. Or is it the muffled words and mixed emotions of travelling inside someone for nine months? I love her more than anyone, and that love is unconditional.

I have written in an earlier e mail that I have made recent contact with a teacher of my youth after a forty year separation. Upon seeing her and particularly upon hearing her voice I realised that I loved her. I have loved her since she taught me in 1968 and 1969. I was not the only one, and can say with some confidence that most of our class did, and still do love her.

So, some teachers are very important to young adolescents on the very first step of adolescence with blurred and muffled hopes and dreams of adulthood on  their horizon and in their imaginary. Unfinished songs playing inaudibly in the background. It all merges. This young woman - not much older than we were ... still only twenty one or twenty two years old -  became the rock that held those dreams and unfinished compositions in an important place.  She held them in the place of possibility - of hope and trust in the future, of hope and trust in our young selves. Afterall, what more does a good teacher have to offer than a belief in her students - in their ability to succeed, to grow, to flourish? If a teacher can't communicate that then surely a student can't flourish. Surely to offer subject content on a plate without trust in her students would have been to doom them to failure.

So, when the times became tough, that is the vibe I held. I was found to be interesting by this teacher. As the third of four daughters I often felt like a fifth wheel in my family- the same as the other wheels, so of no real consequence. That is not unusual and no blame is intended. As the third repetition of the same what can one expect? I grew up expecting very little. Yet in my ninth and tenth year of schooling that changed slightly and forever.

I know I will hear my mother's voice for ever - metaphorically at least and hopefully in my imaginary. This is unconditional love. Recently I sent the fave teacher an e mail, though  in my somewhat autistic way it came across all wrong. I perhaps severed something very important then. It has been weeks and she has not replied. I have apologised by e mail but know that one cannot unbreak an egg.  Unconditional love is an egg that when broken can be unbroken. It's a magic pudding which will nourish us for ever. A rare and wonderful thing. A security.  Perhaps the love between this teacher and myself was unconditional in my heart and mind but not in hers. We'll see. I wait, and hope, but expect very little ...