Amelia Carson: I draw, I write

    Every now and then someone: a painter, a songwriter, or a poet, comes along whose work seems to echo your soul. Their timing is perfect: the work turns up just as you need it and this coincidence brings a smile. Its shared and familiar truth brings a tear, a cup of tea for the soul; a pat on the shoulder, an ally, a comfort....

Teresa Bell, an Australian writer and poet, is that "someone" for me........

A couple of years ago a friend gave me a copy of Teresa's book "36 Formless Writings"- I was immediately beguiled. The book is beautiful: elegant and concise. It's front cover is decorated with a drawing by Joy Hester, a favourite artist of mine and further flicking revealed a reference to Kathe Kollwitz, another favourite so my sense of affinity was secured.

Now, excuse me here as I digress a little: When I first began this blog I was very aware that I didn't want to venture into the personal instead I wanted to keep it 'art' focussed. I especially wanted to avoid the "mother" thing, despite how much it informs my point of view. However, as I write this that line I drew in the techni-webby sand might be blurred.

When I received my copy of "36 Formless Writings" I was in a vulnerable place. Struggling a little with the shift and adjustments called motherhood. Loneliness, sleep deprivation, mood swings, longings and vague dreams were churning and it was less then fun.

Teresa's writing was a door to a small bit of healing: familiarity can be so kind.

Pieces like this became mantras.....

        
            and this became faith:

This year she popped back into my life: so did vulnerability. As I mentioned last blog: I am pregnant and the news, (in all honesty because that is the stock I prefer to trade in), was a mixed bag. I am so very keen to welcome a lovely new member to our lovely family, but this pregnancy has been hard. Emotional. Draining. Vulnerable. And bubbalugs hasn't even been born yet.
As all of this emotion crescendo-ed into a teary trip to the doctors, that same friend wrote to tell me that she had just received a copy of Teresa's new book. It was dedicated to all those who have suffered or are suffering from depression.  I smiled, there it was again: coincidental familiarity. A consolation to ward off the loneliness and the selfish pit of absorption that took colour from the world.


My friend also sent me this:

Ah the release that a few familiar words can give. The recognition of ourselves in others stories is such a powerful aspect creation I believe. The above consolatory, poetic, rub on the back. A new mantra. A touch of hope.  Thank you Theresa

However, I must tell you that it is not just coincidental and the fatalistic nature of my encounters with her words that I value so much in Teresa's books, in her poetry. Not by any means, because I also love the slip between dream and reality she creates. The poetic sense of magic realism she captures in her "real world" quotes. I love her awareness of the page, of the paper and how her poem sits upon it. Of the restrained and pared back use of images and typography. The lack of rhyme, but the ever present awareness of rhythm and repetition. Yup I learn a lot from Ms Teresa Bell and  I wish I could thank her in person: you never know this might find her in the wide-weird-fatalistic-coincidental world of the web.

 My brain is turning in on itself, tangled like sheet at the end of another hard night, so I am resting and keeping you all primed with poems from the backlog. x Amelia


In my children's bedroom


I stand in the dark
Towel forgotten in one hand
Memories forgetting in the other

I am the slut
              Remembering
I am the mother
              Listening
I am the woman
              Culminating

And I stand in the dark
              
              Dripping

Lucian Freud, Margeret Olley and Amy Winehouse all passed away. All in their own way BRILLIANT.

I cannot say much else, really. I don't know if I am equipped to- but I'll no doubt one day give it a go.

So instead I am going to post what I had in mind last week- some poems.

Tension


Tension is about the teeth
about discipline and sleep


I have 22 fillings
Counting.


Loneliness is about the distance
between shallow distractions.


I have 10 fans
Counting.


Obsession is about the mouse
clicking spangled jewels into patterns.


I have 96 000 points
Counting.

Avoidance is about the bed
clenching time within sheets.

I have three hours
Counting.

Passion is about the substitutes
foot massages and a glass of water

We have ten years
Counting.

Patience is about the belly
involuntarily moving.

I am 36 weeks
Counting.

 I have been writing: tiny snippets of tiny things. Sentences that float on the page to be harvested and woven into something of substance in some kind of future: or they just float as I lack the heart to pin meaning upon them….. My drawing is in a similar place and I am feeling rather disjointed.

I wonder how am I supposed to convince my audience there is a sense to all this: or at least a reason to look, when I struggle with the sense bit myself. 

You see I wonder if I should be dedicating myself to the work that gets the most feedback and perfecting it or do I trust my chaotic, bitsa this bitsa that work ethic to get me there in the end?

Should I be embracing the idea of discipline or do I accept the vague notion that I have a natural dislike of such impositions and tend to lie on the couch eating cheese if I “should” be doing something. So, maybe its best whilst I have to cope with all the other “shoulds” a mother has to digest, maybe it is best that I just float.

 In that spirit of floating I am posting a mixed bag of the last couple of weeks produce:

Oh and nothing is finished, nor connected: it has been a bitsa week... you'll forgive me won't you and feel free to leave a comment- it helps the float.
 

This morning is recycled coffee

and a second son forced into patience and adaptability

It is

unstitched eyes waking between a starched neck and folded toes.

Breakfast gives false start to a day that never ends

In case your wondering what her head says, this is it. An ode to cheese:

Love

Swealtering on the couch sweating vinyl slouching

Love

Lying in pool of myself eating rich creaming

Love

Rolling the thick cheese round my thick slippery

Love

Letting the thick slippery creamy oozing decadent moment

Drop