Books

University libraries smell different. They smell of old books and recycled air and ticking clocks, the same as other libraries, but there are different notes too. The smell of toner and carbon copy paper. Ink. Sneaky bottles of caffeinated beverages.

I am studying again, in a library even though I have an office at home with lovely natural light and white bookcases filled with texts. Somehow the artificial bright white light and the smell of toner and copy paper are more meaningful and I study better when I am here in my jeans and my hoodie in the middle of Summer with my feet curled up under me on the chair.

It is University holidays so it is quieter than usual and the quiet is welcoming. I like the tapping of the other computer keys and the click as the second hand navigates the clock on the wall. I like the clearing of throats from some unseen person in the corner and he librarian shuffling her things around in between checking facebook. I like the rumbling of the heavy metal cart that they use to replace books on shelves and the way it clangs across the tiles. I like the noisiness of the silence as the airconditioner hums in the background.

My newest textbook is open in front of me, its pages gilded at the edges so that when I get to a new page that I have not opened yet, I have to separate the pages. Proof that this is mine and mine alone. Somehow, for a brand new book they have managed to colour the pages into a sense of age and the type set is ever so subtly incomplete so that little chunks are missing out of letters. I love it. It looks old even though it is new.

I have always preferred new books. The excitement of birthdays and Christmas mornings when a brand new book smelling of brand new book would be opened and the first creases to be put into the paper spine would be caused by me and my reading. Even as an adult, this preference persevered, I think because of the novelty of having something new.

When I was a teenager, I came across the red cloth covered volume of Tennyson's poems from which this blog takes its title that belonged to my father. I have no idea if he bought it new, but I suspect, owing to both its age, condition and his financial status when he bought it, that it was not new. I have always loved it. Stole it from home, technically, without asking, because of that desperate love for it. It went to university with me, and lay on my cardboard box of a bedside table under the posters of wizards and dragons. I love that it is a book from history that has history of its own.

Earlier in the year, I was desperate to find a book that is not available in book stores. Even though it was an award winning book, it has not been republished in some time. I have its sequel, triumphantly scavenged from a second hand book fair but this book, one of my favourites of a childhood that refuses to end completely, has eluded me. I don't think I ever had a copy of my own - it was only ever a library book, so with the magic of the internet I searched for it.

The Book Depository didn't have it, but they suggested Abe Books, who I'd always been vaguely suspicious of. The idea of buying used books online feeling strange - I'm not sure why given my op shopped collection of Trixie Beldens. But they had my book, in a tiny independent store in Perth of all places in the world, and it would cost me merely $2. So I bought it, wondering how defaced the cover would be and if there would be pages missing.

There weren't.

Like the first time I'd read it, it was a library book, with the library plate still on the inside of the cover and the stamps from those who had borrowed it before, just like the one I'd read as a child. It was a different cover, so it wasn't *my* book, but this one, with its own history, that many other children had read before me, was somehow more special than any other. A new book would not have been the same because I'd already read it, had cracked the spine and smudged the pages. Had cried on a few. This was more my book than any reprint ever could have been.

I also bought, on the same day, for the princely sum of 2 pounds, Jane of Lantern Hill, the last written and published book of LM Montgomery's life. And it came to me with a piece bitten out of the cover and a little girl's name written on the inside cover in a childish script and although the book itself was not anywhere near my favourite, feeling like an idealised and slightly beatific version of Emily, it belongs on my shelf, because it too, was beloved by little girls who belong to the cult of PEI.

There is no other option, if I want to complete my collection of Trixie Belden's, especially if I want to know what happens in the last 2 books that I've never read. Unfortunately, due to the popularity and scarcity of these books, they are being offered at ludicrous prices of over $40 each online. There is part of me, though, that needs to know, desperately, if Jim ever kissed Trixie, after the lead up of all the books before then. But somehow I think I'm going to be disappointed. It's kind of nice, in a way, to know that the series has never finished for me, and that those books are still out there.

I wonder sometimes, when I look at our well worn copies of Harry Potter, and muse regularly about whether I think Snape was in fact part of one of the best stories ever written about unrequited love or just a slime ball if my girls will ever feel the same way about books. I hope so, because there is something still, that no e-reader can ever give, and that's the smell of type print that smears just a little under sweaty hands and tears that fall over stories that seem too real. And the way it feels to slide your fingers between gilt edged pages to open something that has never before been opened, and to learn something new.

I read your book because of a tattoo

It has been a cold, wet start to winter and the rain seems unlikely to relent any time soon. We were at the beach this long, wet weekend, with the intention of dancing along the sand and collecting shells and spent much time indoors instead, watching movies on the couch and listening longingly to the roar of the stormy ocean outside. It was so wet that even I, the inveterate rainwalker could not head out through the dunes to splash in the waves.


It was a slightly crestfallen Jenn that woke this morning in the grey wetness, looking balefully at the clouds and wishing for the tiniest interlude, a quick steal onto the sand, as I packed up the detritus from the hotel room and the collected pens and sponsor waterbottles from my conference. The children were in surprisingly good humour, considering the resort pool that they had only seen glimpses of and the beach and playground equipment that eluded them as we set off this morning. Bellies full from the buffet breakfast (the highlight of their trip) we drove North West, into the shadow of the volcano to trip through some of the world's most beautiful country.

The bickering from the backseat ebbed and flowed with the raindrops as we ascended into the Border Ranges and into the forest, watching the ephemeral rain waterfalls off the escarpment that are only there when the rain is heavy. A brief hiatus in the bucketing rain left the leaves glossy and wet, with every breeze dislodging heavy drops that splodged over noses and tickled down collars as we pulled everyone out of the car and off to see a waterfall that had eaten through the rock and formed a Natural Bridge, the cave underneath home to thousands of glow worms, seen only by their glistening silken threads.

The spray off the waterfall mingled with the tangy rain drenched air and tasted sweet as it snuggled down in my chest. The girls racing along the paths, asking with teenaged exasperation why we were walking through the forest on a rainy day just to see TREES. When I asked the Possum, who was holding my hand, he smiled and told me the trees were singing. Whereupon I tumbled him up as he giggled, hugged him tightly until he squirmed and whispered that that was exactly it - I needed to hear the trees singing.

I am glad that at least one of my children has inherited my insatiable need to be out in the green, though to be fair to the other two ratbags, they enjoyed themselves as well, watching waterfalls and trying to catch glimpses of pademelons as they sprung between trees.

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It was the Possum's third birthday this weekend. Three. It makes my heart ache to think of a time when he was not part of our lives, when I did not wake with his feet warming on some part of my body while his body curls with his elbows tucked in neatly. I was afraid that as he grew older my need for another baby would resurface, but he is so much more than enough that every stage of his growing older is more lovely than the last. Being his mother and getting to hold him against my heart is such a massive privilege. I am a very lucky woman. We are all utterly besotted and he is thriving.

On Friday we took his birthday cake into daycare where he solemnly blew out all the candles and exulted in the joy that is quite unexplainable of having a birthday. More than just the attention and balloons, it was his joy in simply being alive in his new shoes that flash as he walks and help him leap puddles in a single bound. Of his skinny little hips in his new jeans and shirt that made him look older, wiser and ultimately more vulnerable than he ever seemed as a newborn. I had to restrain myself from holding him to me, just to absorb through my skin the radiance that lights him from the inside out, exploding through his cheeky grins.

I feel often that I should write more here, about what is happening in their lives, of their stories and their triumphs, but I also feel that many are not my stories to tell; to share with the world at large. Though as the guardian of something so wonderful it feels as though I want to bring that light to others too. Do I sound like every besotted mother, convinced of the loveliness of her own progeny? Of course, and it's how it should be, but I know there is something special about my boy - if only because, temporarily, he is mine.

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The title of this post comes from Vonnegut, who I read on the advice of strangers who commented and submitted to Contrariwise. I was reminded of it as I clicked on a blog I once read miserably, to push the blade deeper into my chest and hope that the fragile creation within it would finally die and stop hurting. And it didn't hurt at all tonight, and I didn't even finish because I was not interested in playing with knives any more. I read a little and all I could think was "So it goes". And while that felt empty and strange for a little while, I was pouring a bowl of cereal later for dinner when I broke into a huge grin and a laugh tumbled forward from my lips. Because the ridiculousness of finding a life philosophy from a tattoo that echoes in all of the secret places of your soul was so delicious that only a squirrel could understand. Or perhaps a tree.

So it goes.

Pastel

My toenails are blue. The paint job is decidedly wonky but I'm getting better. I tried my fingernails too and I look like a 4 year old who has stolen her Mum's makeup. I doubt they'll still be painted tomorrow as my tolerance record for paint on my nails is about 14 hours. But for the moment they sparkle like the twilight sky and the acrid smell is pleasing. And if you don't look too closely you can't see the uneven cuticles. Besides, it stops me biting them. Mostly.

I have been studying so hard that it feels like my brain is battered and bruised. But the panic still rises inside of me and bubbles up in a fountain of acid in my throat so I keep pushing on and forcing more knowledge about the popliteal fossa into a reluctant and terrified brain.

I am sleepy tonight, the first night in a week. No caffeine today. It was raining hard and friends visited so I drank cider on the couch and laughed instead, but the nagging fear crept along my shoulder and whispered in my ear about the time I was wasting. Was I not afraid of failure?

Last weekend for Easter I studied hard when we weren't visiting or listening for the Easter Bunny. But it wasn't enough and I spent last week feeling guilty and anxious. We went to the rainforest and climbed rocks for hours until my limbs felt soft and heavy and ached to move. We swam in rock pools and under waterfalls and I climbed halfway up a waterfall to take pictures of rainbows in the spray. We left the path and down to where the water is hidden and took off all our clothes to swim in the stream. It was so beautiful that for a few hours I forgot to be anxious and my eyes glowed gold. I climbed a fallen tree that was over a gorge and I lay there in a shaft of sunlight through the green sky with my cheek against the softly curling moss. I dangled my arms down and watched the rushing water 3m below me and thought about all the patients I see with broken bones and bodies who fall 3m. Then closed my eyes and smiled. Bingley just shook his head.

I was so sore the next day. Not in my legs, which I expected because of all the steps. And the climb. And the bounding over rocks. But it was my arms that hurt. I had used them to cling to the rocks, especially the slippery ones so that I wouldn't fall. Up there, half way up a waterfall. It was worth it.

I finished reading my first Hemingway book two nights ago, giving into insomnia. The Old Man and the Sea. I had never read Hemingway before and did not know what to expect. I am still not sure. I feel a little awe and a little despair because he makes me feel as if I waste words. His words are so sparse, so spare. And yet they paint pictures that my airy adjective heavy narratives always seem to fall short of. I never thought of writing having colours and texture before, but I saw it after reading that little palm sized book. I feel like my writing is weak and pastel and his is bold and bright. I think pastels are often pretty but I live for colour. I want to write in colour.

I want to go away for a while and study and not have responsibility or things to do. I don't want to pack school bags tomorrow morning. Or brush hair that has been matted by the soap bubbles that they foamed in the bath tonight. I want to sleep and drink caffeine and go slightly crazy with no one to be sane for. I want to wake when I wake and the breeze is brushing the curtain across my cheek and sleep when I collapse. I don't want the accusatory faces when I just want to sit. When all rational thought has fled and instead there are only the cacophonous voices of tangential strings. Medial head of gastroc and tendon of soleus. Semi membraneous. Semitendinosus. Synovium. Remnant of sciatic artery and division below popliteus.

I don't want to get up again while writing this, and pat and rock and sing him to sleep for him to get up yet again and smile cheekily over the back of the couch. It's not funny tonight and his beautiful eyes make me frustrated.

I want to go away for a while and be crazy somewhere. Hear the waves crash and cut my feet when I jump through rock pools. Feel my hair swell with salt. Watch the moon rise. Drive for hours through the bush for a sprig of wattle and stand on top of the pulpit overlooking the schism. Red cliffs on one side and blue mists on the other. Sunlight on my face.

I'm not sure how I will live another week of this.

Hello, I'm boring

Is this thing still on? Maybe?

So, I've not been writing much lately, as you may have noticed. Except about a holiday I took several months ago. And I still haven't finished that. Procrastination and I, we're like best friends forevah! Part of it is because I'm crazy busy and part of it's just because I'm too stubborn to write properly on here without finishing my holiday posts but at the same time too off with the fairies to sit down and commit to the last 2 posts. I'm completely manic at the moment and ahve the attention span of a mentally deficient squirrel, but am mostly fairly happy which in the scheme of things that probably counts for most.

I have been reading a lot lately, rediscovering my torrid affair with the written word and despairing at my dreadful attempts to replicate the same. In a glut I read about 15 books over the spate of a few days, and was left panting and sated but absolutely craving more so I bought a bunch off the Book Depository to encourage me to read my "have to read someday" list. I called it my reward for getting my training position and thought it quite grown up after my initial urge to buy ridiculous shoes, but now I'm remembering all the study I should be doing the beautiful books sit by my bed while I hunch over a Physics textbook and mutter mutinously.

None of the physics is sinking in and I feel like a giant fraud. I keep waiting to get found out and kicked off the program even before I have signed the contracts and it makes me anxious and rebellious at the same time. So I get little done and tinker aroudn the edges with my massive to do list and consider taking a nap. Apparently 30 is the new 13.

I then commit to projects like baking a Christmas Cake (which takes weeks if done properly) and making the annual Christmas dresses (which ought to have been done right now, but which I haven't started) and instead of usefully doing anything I avoid them and then panic about the same. These are clearly not useful or rational or particularly mature ways of coping with things but appear to be how I'm built.

I'm also in the crux of a massive emotional upheaval where I'm simultaneously delighted and bereft by a situation that leaves me swinging like a yo yo that is either maniacally happy with a slightly scary teeth baring grin or hopelessly wounded and teary. It's strange to sometimes sit in the middle of the electrons that buzz around the nucleus of Elemental Jenn and watch them zip around at crazy speeds and wonder why they don't just calm the fuck down. I'm sure Bohr could explain it.

The three raisons d'etre, are at their grandparents' place this week and tiring out someone else and I miss them dreadfully while being selfishly glad to not have to look after them at the same time. It is so ridiculously easy to look after only your self for a week that one could become quite accustomed to it. Savvy to this, they are being returned soon, and we will all be happier for it.

Anyway, I'm going to sneak off and read some Bronte (on whom I'm cheating with Hemingway and Melville), which I shouldn't be reading at all because I should be memorising a Physics text book while ignoring my to do list and the last 3 presents I have to wrap. WTF is with me not wanting to finish things? I think it's a disease.

Anyhoo, much love if you've made it this far. Bisous to all.

PS I never realised Jane Eyre started so miserably, I was hoping for a fact universally acknowledged... tell me it cracks a smile SOMEWHERE.