tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28133718.post7505825742166584294..comments2023-06-28T22:58:28.247+10:00Comments on Sixth In Line: FogElisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04015624747225433940noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28133718.post-71560490422979405362013-11-10T23:33:56.752+11:002013-11-10T23:33:56.752+11:00You’ve read my poetry so you know I’m capable of d...You’ve read my poetry so you know I’m capable of delving into my own life but what you also have to appreciate is you’re not—you are incapable in fact—of ever getting a true picture of the events recorded in those poems. They’re like paintings in that respect and paintings are not photos, photos are not films and films are not real life. I’ve recorded an impression, like a brass rubbing and that’s all it is; the rest rests with your imagination. When I listen to my wife talk about my childhood I realise what a bad job I’ve actually done of communicating what life was like for me as a child. By focusing on key moments I failed to stress how exceptional these were. Most of my life was fairly ordinary and boring and not particularly memorable which is probably why I don’t remember that much about it not because I’ve repressed the memories. The poem where I describe lying on the floor of my bedroom—which was directly above the living room—and trying to listen to my parents is accurate enough and I’m pretty sure I did it more than once but the comment my dad made about him being God happened many years later. When <i>I</i> read the poem it evokes very specific feelings but you weren’t there so all you can do is imagine and probably get it wrong which is fine; I’ve not failed because I haven’t communicated effectively because I never wrote the poem for you; that you get anything out of it at all is a bonus. If the poem works at all it’s because you’ve made it your own and that’s the nature of, the unpredictability of all writing but especially poetry. My wife takes this to what I think is an extreme in her ‘decoder ring poems’ because even when they’ve been about me I’ve needed her to provide me with the key before I could get them and I’ve always felt guilty because of that. I don’t often write in the heat of the moment. When I do the writing is usually bad but it’s served its purpose. Mostly I approach things years later and with a level head. Levelish. <br /><br />Why does grief or pain need to be shared? Do others not have enough of their own without us demanding they relive ours? Would it be so bad if we met someone who had lived a life without any pain? Impossible to imagine. We take pain as read. You live on the other side of the world to me but there’s no way you got through your sixty-odd years on this planet pain free. That’s not how life plays out. I don’t need to know the details. As I’m writing this the TV’s on with the sound down and they’re all marching past the cenotaph or being wheeled past. I’ve not met many soldiers but those I have met have never been ones to talk much about their experiences even when pressed. I can imagine two veterans running into each other, looking each other in the eye and thinking, <i>You know, don’t you?</i> Enough said. Who needs details? And yet, perversely, there is some comfort to be had when we learn that we’ve not been alone in our suffering. Why, I wonder, is that? Our suffering’s done and dusted. Maybe it would’ve helped when we were going through it—although it wouldn’t’ve lessened it one iota so I’m not sure why—but now? I guess it’s all to do with understanding. We want to be understood. It’s not enough for people to know us or at least to know things <i>about</i> us, we want people to understand us and, after coming to that understanding, still accept us. I did all these bad things and all these other bad things were done to me. Now tell me you still love me.Jim Murdochhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12786388638146471193noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28133718.post-8083782104210293392013-11-10T22:04:50.484+11:002013-11-10T22:04:50.484+11:00Writing is freedom. But can we always write what w...Writing is freedom. But can we always write what we truly feel?<br /><br />What would you write about 'Marine A' - found guilty of murdering a wounded Afghan insurgent? <br /><br />What would you write about his punishment? Should he be locked away for life, or should he be given a couple of years in prison?<br /><br />Or should he be freed? <br /><br />It's a tricky one. But I know what I think and maybe I'll write my thoughts down in a while.PhilipHhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06811831703263176415noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28133718.post-56665362056578764502013-11-10T02:38:56.024+11:002013-11-10T02:38:56.024+11:00This is a brilliant post, on so many levels. It p...This is a brilliant post, on so many levels. It provides crucial insights, and possibly even answers, to understanding the human need for validation, questions of self identity, and why even after vengeance (or forgiveness), as a method of release, there still remains that ache. The fog as metaphor, for blindness, invisibility and the need to break free, see, understand. Which for some might mean no longer needing what lies behind it to define them. Thank you for this intriguing post.awynhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01541564613932885469noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28133718.post-69230054792481073462013-11-10T00:07:09.725+11:002013-11-10T00:07:09.725+11:00As they say, there is nothing truer than fiction. ...As they say, there is nothing truer than fiction. The writing profession is the hardest of all, for just the reasons you describe, and your friends and family will always see themselves in your stories, can't be helped as we share so many of the same memories and experiences. <br /><br />I think I'm much better with my words in private writings (get down to the dirty truth) than in public. I'm not much of a witty conversationalist in public. The true feelings, the honesty, as you say, is easier to unveil with the written word. But it's so hard to have read what we've written. Though that is the ultimate goal. Pushme, pullme.<br /><br />Yvonne Osbornehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18212188414972694795noreply@blogger.com