Becoming lost...
... for Knots in the String.
I have a need to become lost in other things, in other worlds or activities, displacement if you will.
I find I’m watching more of this artist’s reels. They’re bizarre and clever and in their own way quite thrilling. I am quite still as I watch, lost in good way. There is a beautifully contrived three minute reel of a steampunk world on her website and while I have never found steampunk or dystopian worlds attractive, I was happy to motor around in steam vehicles observing curious ways of life. There is a small reel with threads and balls of wool that speaks to the stitcher in me, as does the reel with children walking with phantasmagorical animals and birds – it is filled with trust and kindness between the species, something we need to cultivate in our world. I’m hypnotised by the scale and intricacy of Boesch’s work. Is that a good thing, being AI music and design and therefore a potential threat to musicians and artists?
Then, there is the Instagram account Whispering Roots
which transports me to the world of living treasures in China. The craftsmen’s work is mesmeric and calming, as I watch how beautiful creations are realised using age-old traditions. My breath slows and I feel myself grounded in time.
Kana Chan draws me in the same way, to the rural Japanese world of Kamikatsu on Shikoku Island.
Life is slow and tied intrinsically to the passing of the seasons. There is a gentleness to the rhythm, and it seems to be what we’ve lost. I want to find it again and perhaps I need a map. Maybe this desire to watch the small screen is creating my map to a simpler, calmer life.
My friend Willi's daughter had her first solo exhibition with fabulous success. A water baby from birth, she has transposed life under the Tasmanian waters to vivid canvas. It’s truly a world in which to lose oneself.
Under the sea has its own silence, a unique thing built of the sounds water creatures make and as Wil (she shares her mum’s name) shows, it also has its own explosive visual beauty. Very excited for her. Something she said about putting oneself out there and chasing one’s dreams is exactly the leap I took in 2010, when my first book was indie-published. Life doesn’t wait for you. You have to close your eyes and take a leap of faith, and whilst that might imply rush and bustle and everything that isn’t slow and measured, it’s not. Being an indie means I’m in control of the pace at which I write and what I write. It couldn’t be better, fifteen books later . . .
My books have led me to such engaging people with whom I’m such good friends and yesterday, I met another via Zoom. Jennifer Granville and I chatted, she in London, me here in Hobart, about her forthcoming book. More details on that later but I think it’ll be a damned good book. See Jennifer’s Substack here - she leads a wonderfully colourful life.
I danced my way into another world this week, testing my calf carefully, afraid of a further tearing. Perhaps this world is one I might invite you into more fully in the future. Maybe next week when I apply the brakes to life and take time to make time.
But more than any other thing, I’ve become lost in Act III, in a world of my own creation, where a millenial woman, a principal dancer, has been confronted with her own fallibility. I’m working my way through the edits and real life ceases to exist as I sink into the punishing graft of a world-class ballerina whose life is at a crossroads. I look up, check the time and shake myself, rather like a dog when they want to bring themselves back to the here and now…
When she finally woke next day to the grating call of the yellow wattle birds outside her window, she stretched her legs and whilst there was a residual tightness that she felt Sally could work on, she was confident that huge leaps and bounds had been made. She stepped out of bed, washed, made breakfast and took it to the window where the sun pooled on the floor. She was lighter, a new Kate after the peeling of the onion the day before.
More contented, she placed the bowl of porridge on the floor and subsided, careful as she lowered herself, and then leaned against one of the couches to soak up the sun. She spooned the creamy oats idly into her mouth, staring at the vast bulk of Maria Island on the horizon.
You are making progress. Make more!
She blinked. Is this what Annie meant? That in a strange way, there was something of the challenger in the island’s presence? Giving no quarter? As if it had its own personality?
I’m not going anywhere. Prove that you can.
She mused on that. Could she? And to where? Back to the company? Yes, but how good would she be? Was Sergei right? Did she need him to lift her higher? And what if her newly conceived idea was unacceptable to the company? What then?
There was Jock as well. What if there was nothing between them beyond friendship? It was that more than anything that would stop her returning to the company, even to Melbourne. Without Jock, there was nothing there for her. Of course there was her Melbourne family, but she couldn’t live with them and would need to strike out on her own. Again.
Could she live in Tasmania? She looked around the room, looked out at the sky, at the trees, listened to the bird chorus. She thought of the life she had made here, beginning with Poppy the barista. And now Richard and Annie. Enough? Of course not. There would have to be a new career of some sort.
She could feel the old anxiety and anger sneaking in at the edges of what had promised to be a lovely day. The sun still shone but she felt no warmth, just the familiar sensation of insecurity. She had thought she had put things behind her, but she was a fool.
She huffed an angry breath, growling as she pulled herself carefully up onto the couch and then carried her bowl to the dishwasher. In the past when she had felt like this, she always knew that studio classes would ground her, pulling her mind away from the edge. So she dragged on a pair of soft ballet shoes, found some ballet music on Spotify and using the kitchen bench as her barre, she did some gentle demi-plies, then tendus, rond de jambes, ports de bras. Dare she try something more difficult? Probably not. Finish on a high note. She resolved to text Sally this morning to ask for an entry plan back into the company.
She showered, dressed in frayed shorts and a butter yellow T-shirt, pulled her hair into a high ponytail, decided to flick some mascara on her lashes, waft some blusher over her cheeks, a slick of some lipstick and thus dressed . . . even her mother would approve . . . sat with her lap-top to check emails, contact Sally and graze quickly over social media.
There was an email from the National Ballet – the company year lay before her. A contemporary work – Kunstkamer – that was interesting. Then Alice in Wonderland and she suspected Karol would give her a character role, something fiercely colourful but not too demanding. For July though, there it was . . . Romeo and Juliet using the John Cranko choreography, and her heart beat faster. With Jock.
Romeo and Juliet – the original love story but such a tragedy.
She frowned. Did it bode badly? Superstition was everything in the theatre . . .
(And no, dear reader, this isn’t a love story. It’s the story of a journey. The kind of cataclysmic journey we all find ourselves making at some point in our lives.)
In another vein entirely, I was directed to this reel
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this week by my daughter, and I thought how emotional a Haka is and how much relevance it can have when life is . . . difficult, because this week life had its moment when my husband keeled over (collapsed) mowing the lawns in the coast garden, and was taken away to hospital by ambulance. His heart was apparently misbehaving but all’s well that ends well for the moment. The womble and I did our own grateful Haka.
I may be searching for worlds in which to lose myself, but this week has rather mired me in realities, some parts of it making me feel as if I hate November. Maybe that’s why I’m trying to escape. Remember what I said last week about heads in the sand? A testing time on 9/11, when my husband had his cardiac event.
On 10/11, when we remembered our beautiful Late Terrier – so hard to believe a year has passed by. On 11/11, when we stopped at eleven o’clock, in the middle of ballet class, to remember the fallen and I noted when I walked last night, that a garden down the road was filled with wafting red poppies.
On 13/11, our womble, light of our lives and the one who is determined to keep us young, turned one year old. On 14/11, the physio gave my calf another going-over and I toddled off to the ballet studio for a very intensive session. Very much on the flat for me, that’s for sure . . .
And on 15/11, by the time you read this, we’ll be journeying to the other end of the island for a weekend we anticipate every year at this time – a garden festival that never fails to take our breath away. Last year, the beauty of Longford Blooms managed to salve our broken hearts just a little.
On that same afternoon in Westbury, close by the sublime gardens, we saw the very newborn womble for the first time. This year, although he’s not allowed into the opened gardens, he’s coming with us. We will take time to walk in odd places where he can sniff and pee to his heart’s delight.
Music this week? Because this is a week of auroras and far off worlds, of realities and fantasies, this might just fit the bill:
If you do choose to share Knots far and wide, you will have gained my undying gratitude. It’s enough of course, to have you take the time to read, but if you have gone the extra mile and shared, I’ll love you forever . . .
Joni Mitchell wrote that the seasons go round and round...but life surely is a roller coaster! Hoping you and your love are able to take a deep breath and find respite! And cheers for the wee ones who exasperate and delight us, keeping us present ! Hugs all around
Sigh. All the best for your dear hubby. My heart-related fainting episodes occurred ninety minutes after drinking coffee. They were all ready to give me a pacemaker until I noticed the common element. I’ve removed caffeine from my diet and I’m fine. But your fellow’s a little older than me and hearts do wear out. I sincerely hope that they can find a way to keep him hearty for another ten years or more.
And isn’t the Haka extraordinary. I’ve seen female friends do it with just as much passion, but it means so much for men, no matter what their age.
Take care dear Prue. Cherish all the good in your life. I’ll send heaps of healing vibes. 🤗🤗💕