I would so love to spend some time at the truck stop with you.

GETTING THERE

The mind can find
Odd passageways
That erupt in fierce displays
Which grasp and bind
A vagrant thought,
A bright delight
Snagged and caught
In syllables, in streaks
Of color, line –
Each one speaks
A language out of uniques.
Each mobile mind, replete
With barbs and hooks
That glow, compete,
To shake and change
A mind, rearrange
The gates, the trails
Where cognition impales
All events, all emotion.
No telling in this navigation
Over terrains, through an ocean
What may be an estimation
Of this place we inhabit.
Eye or ear or mind
Can grab it,
Tuck it away secure,
Tidy, final, closed and sure.

Beautifully expressed our Anna1, when you see someone who has such a gift, a magnificent creative talent it can sometimes be a bit intimidating but when they share it so naturally, invite everyone in on it, well. That's just the best for those of us who look on in wonder.

in the moment

when eyes

a child’s eyes

first fall upon ...

first gasp ...

first know

that they must know ...


ha, know what, tho? that all is flux in innocence/
and that dead cynicism hardens a soul
to a fixed Eye that has lost mobility
that cannot see
the meanderings of timespace within
the field of vision?

too bad for hard cynic, he/she will crumble to ash
when the world heats up.

but ashes are damn good to throw in the sea
with a prayer:


''Man has no Body distinct from his Soul; for that call'd Body is a portion of Soul discern'd by the five Senses, the chief inlets of Soul in this age.''

William Blake

uh oh i f true.

A lovely homage to Kim Gamble.

beautiful Anna

One of your very best Anna1. I have missed the truckstop, indeed I have...

Good One, you are more than welcome in the truckstop. It has been a resting place, a being place, a knowing and a holding place. For most of this past year ... and still ... it has been a kind of home for me ... a studio ... where I can be with ... time and calm and space ... words and thoughts and hearts and souls ... sometimes art ... music in the background ... gifts of art ... gifts of music ... carefully chosen ... lovingly shared ... walks along a beach ... Vinny always company ... and tea ... morning ... evening ... middle of the ...all there is ... and moonlight ... honoured ... all of these ... honoured as ... we have held each other ... even in the quiet ... even in the still ...
Thank you for your lovely thoughts.

Jan, Thank you for coming to read and for sharing your thoughts so beautifully.

“Each one speaks ...”

So many ways of getting there ... I love the way you speak of it.
On my own ... I’d have thought that words have been my way of getting there ... and as I’ve grown, I think that’s true. But when I try to recall the earliest books, the books that began me ... what has stayed ... is not the words ... well ... except these :

I have a little shadow
that goes in and out with me
but what can be the use of him
is more than I can see ...

Of all the Garden offered, these are the words that stay ... and even here ... it is the silhouette of shadow ... a companion who wouldn’t leave ... the image that comes back to me ...

Another book ... one I think I read ... with help perhaps ... words melted ... but one image ... a silhouette ...a woman ... all these years later ... still here ...

Always, when I was a child, someone stayed with me, looked after me while my mother worked and my father slept, and early on the word was out ... “Read to her and she will be so quiet ...” And yet ... I remember only these earliest of words ... from a time when I could read them on my own. From the earliest moments when someone held a book for me ... I have a sense of line and shape ... home for me ... as all the while I had what I most craved ... closeness ... someone sitting near ... or holding me ... as what became my greatest treasure ... stories ... were made known to me ...

As I’ve thought of this, it is a sense of the illustrations that have stayed with me. Is it because words came more easily ... that even then ... I knew that illustrations ...were not inside of me ... came from somewhere ... someone else ... as now ... as ... now ...

“As soon as I read it I saw the pictures ~ where Grandpa lived, his boat, & the model ship his Grandfather had built, his pride & joy : the Arabella.”

I read Kim’s words and try to imagine ... the seeing ... as he sees ... and it won’t come. Perhaps it is why his gift, to me, is ... a singular gift ... a unique gift ... that he gives ...as though ... to me.

I need someone else’s hand ... someone else’s vision ... someone else’s brush stroke to ... help me ... see ... I so rarely ... almost never see ... an image ... as I read ... except ... possibly ... Egdon Heath ... that once ...

Clouds, I see, and waves. I see those stories as they form and hear the song of sea ... all of these ... only these ...

Instead I seem to see ... sense ... feel ... feelings ... emotions ... not always clearly ... and perhaps not always very well ...

But for images ... colours ... shapes ... more ... I need another’s hand ... another’s eye ... If not for Kim’s words ... as he writes and as he shares what he has drawn ... I’d never see ... as he sees ... or know ... at least some of what it is ... he knows ...

All these thoughts ... and more ... have brought me here ...

Rita, I think that is my joy ... that never has this gift felt intimidating. Never ... and that is absolutely thanks to the way in which this gift is shared. Perhaps here ... I hoped to share with him the wonder his gift brings ...

Even if he doesn’t speak here ... I do hope that he will sense what he and his gift ... have given ...still give ... will always give ...

James, Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts. Blake ... I think I was meant to be born ... then ...

Know love, I think, that softens ... eases ... moves ... and lifts ...allows one’s soul to breathe ... to be ...

Know love, I hope ...

From these ashes, I hope a phoenix ...

Scarlett, lovely words from you.

Julie, Thank goodness there are illustrations. Thank goodness for the one who allows us to see ... what it is ... he sees ...

Mission, Don’t imagine for a moment that the truckstop has not missed you. Lovely to hear your voice. Truly lovely.

Here's a ha! anna1liese : it's 2.30 am, just woke from a childhood-place dream ~ the house across the road, Manning Road, Ann's house, the boys' rooms, as they were, as they always will be, permutations & all ~ I had Brian's room, for some reason, & was searching for desk-space under all the papers, putting paintings down & aside I stacked a landscape of my own against the wall in front of one of Bella's thinking : Brian would like to see that, from his bed, when he wakes ...
Odd, outside it was bright moonlight ...

To waken the mac I'd left on when I went to sleep & the sound ( the soft murmuration ;-) of waves, the room suddenly alight with os' front page & there on the left ~ anna1liese commented on if there were no illustrations ~ is the world crazy or is it just me, do you think ?

At first read I thought of a photo of Greer when she was maybe 2, or 3, sitting in bed with a picture book held up, close, staring intently at the page with no picture, the page with words. The book is upside-down.
Another time with a friend, who was reading to her & had paused to look more closely at an illustration, Greer looked up at her, then to the book & back to Fwan, & said, " Go on, Fwan. Talk to it." ;-)

It's a mysterious relationship, pictures to words, words to pictures. Thinking of the old man by the fire with children all around, under the stars, out in the desert ~ as he talks, he draws with his finger in the sand before him a series of concentric circles, one here, one there, one over there, & connects them with lines, makes dots around them, and then smoothes it all over with the side of his hand & commences another picture, another page, of the story he tells ...

... night after night he tells these stories, draws these patterns ; night after night the children sleep to the pictures & the patterns in the sand & the sky, in the stars above ... & so it has been, for however many thousands of years ... hey.

Greersy worked her way through the English, the Americans, the Russians & the translated French & now reads Russian. Her support-job as a student is baby-sitting for a friend's mom, a publisher of primary-readers for indigenous Australians ~ she just gave Greersy a story to illustrate, the first time a non-indigenous person has been asked. 24 pages.
& so Greersy sits in Jenni's backyard with old Aunty Beryl from upcountry & as chickens & dogs & rabbits meander around them listens again, as Aunty Beryl unfolds the tale, of how so-&-so met such-&-such, in a flood, away out west, in the Dreamtime ...

You woke me up, anna1liese ;-) Thank you ...

Oh Kim! What a lovely, perfect awakening as you share it here. Let me hold your words a while and find my own and hope that should someone else come to read that your words here will hold them as they hold me ... For now ... just ohhh ...

This is lovely, anna1liese. There is something beyond the pale about that cover, scene, of Arabella, isn't there?
Life without illustrations would be bleak indeed.
Or life without artists at all.
As a child in winter, when sailing season was over, I would go outside in the dark and into the door of my father's shop, where he might be woodworking, or oil painting, or repairing an antique cane chair...listening to music always, on his homemade reel-to-reel....I'd just watch, silent.
So I'd not be sent to bed.
Marvelous to watch an artist paint. Makes a better child when a Dad is an artist I think...even an artist for fun, like my father.
I too marvel at the gift of creating the world again, and often better, in the colors and mood of one's own choosing...

Reading Kim's comment: Congratulations to Greer! What an honor for her...

This was was breathtaking...rhythmic...and one of the most beautiful groupings of words I believe I've read in years. Thank you for sharing this...

Still reading ... thinking ... wondering ...

James ,
One more thought ...
Perhaps all is flux in innocence ... but I so hope that souls ... especially a child’s soul ... will not be hardened by dead cynicism ... I so hope that ... when there are illustrations ... that both creators will come together for the one who reads ... to allow the child to know wonder and beauty and all the heart one heart can give another ...

An illustrator I have come to know ... seems only to be able ... to ... nourish a child’s soul as fully as he can ... is that not the most wonderful gift of all ....

I think so ... and thank you for your gift of thought ... again ...

Just Thinking,
Yes, about Arabella and her cover ... yes ... and now as I look at the inner pages Kim has added just below ... once more I think what I have thought before while looking at his art ... I want to live there ... be there ... see ... and feel ... exactly this ... how lucky the child ... who first feels this ... as a child ... the child for whom the words ... the illustrations ... were made ...

Your words make me think of Bleak House and no ... no one wants to live there. Once you’ve seen what art can be ... the depths it can reach within you ... how to imagine life without it ... bleak it would be indeed ...

“As a child in winter ...” I love the way you speak of this.

“As a child in winter, when sailing season was over, I would go outside in the dark and into the door of my father's shop, where he might be woodworking, or oil painting, or repairing an antique cane chair...listening to music always, on his homemade reel-to-reel....I'd just watch, silent.
So I'd not be sent to bed.”

I love this picture you paint with your words ... and even I remember staying silent ... so I’d not be sent to bed. I stayed awake to hear the stories being told ... if only I could remember ...

But here in your words, not only do you convey the privilege of staying awake ... but far more the privilege of watching ... of feeling part ... of the creating that so held your father’s being ...

You bring us all into that space ... and as you watch ... so do we ...
Thank you for sharing such wonder ... and yes ... about Greer ... yes!

Michelle,
Thank you for sharing in this piece and for your lovely thoughts.

And Kim ... oh Kim ...

I'm so glad you saw these words I left and that
they met with lovely wakening ... I love that such a wakening can leave you with a smile ... 2.30 am ...

the words came ... this time as I looked at Arabella ... on their own ... and I simply caught them and gave them air ...

I love the way your dream ... your childhood-place dream unfolded ...

Threads ... threads ... I feel them as I read your words ...
Bella might not have been most pleased ... but Brian ... his room ... your thoughts about which landscape he would like to see when he awoke ...
how many threads are weaving here ...
threads ... always threads ... and even I can hear Ann’s voice ...

Manning Road ... Ann's house ...
your landscape ...

soft murmuration ... so smiling here ... of waves ...
so deeply ... warmly ... smiling here ...

if the world is crazy for moments like these ... may it be a contagion we all share ...
smiling here ... and so glad ...

Greer reading ...
and then there are memories that help us know why we have lived ...

“ ... staring intently at the page ...
The book is upside-down.”
Looking up ... looking down ... “ ‘Go on, Fwan. Talk to it.’”
I so love this ...

tears now ... connecting tears ... smiling tears ...

Greer ... all the work she’s done ... all the reading ... all the knowing ...
all that now is part of her ...
asked to illustrate ...
“ ... the first time a non-indigenous person has been asked. 24 pages.”

Oh Greer! Oh Kim!

Am I crazy now or am I seeing so many threads meeting here ...

Kim ... I see a fisherman ... and his eyes are filled with tears ...
... connecting tears ... smiling tears ... tears across the years ...
joy tears ...

tears of love that only carefully tended threads can weave ...

Jenni
Aunty Beryl ...

I hear her heart smiling ... both their hearts ...
all your hearts ...
one more heart ... here ...

listening ... as the tale unfolds ...
in the Dreamtime ...

how many ways to fill a heart ...
how many ways to love ...

if you’ve stayed this long ... allow me a few minutes more ...
perhaps I’ve wanted to write about this a very long time ...
or perhaps it is simply you and the way your thoughts ... stay with me ...
stretch me ... hold me ...
... a few minutes more ...

lovely all the thoughts you share ...
lovely all the ways that threads may weave ...

... a few minutes more ...

interval ... I know ... only here ...

an in-between thought ...
Do you remember when you learned to read ...
I’ve never been able to call that back ...
My only memory of actually being held while something was read ...
is one of sitting in my father’s lap ...
I don’t have a sense of a book ...
it seems instead to be a newspaper ...
my father always read the newspaper ...
page by page by page ...
my father left school when he was 15 ...
he’d had enough ...
perhaps it never challenged him ...
anyway ... his newspaper ...
and a tiny daughter in his lap ...

my memory is ... that I must have learned to read
by watching words ... as he read them to me ...
a kind of osmosis from father to daughter ...
and one day ... just ... there it was ...
Dick and Jane ... were too late ...
at least that is ... my memory ...
a linking thread with my father ...
I wonder if I ever told him ...
Daddy, are you listening ...
you did give me ... the world ...

tiny interval ...

Kim,

These last words ... for now ... are for you ... but
I need to start with a few of my own ...

“From the earliest moments when someone held a book for me ... I have a sense of line and shape ... home for me ... as all the while I had what I most craved ... closeness ... someone sitting near ... or holding me ... as what became my greatest treasure ... stories ... were made known to me ...”

... my greatest treasure ... stories ...

life companions ... stories ...
and now ... someone who ... helps me see ... what it is ... I think ... I see ...
how many others ... have you ... helped ... to see ...
will you always help ... to see ...
I wonder ... and I smile ... for all of us ...

Once, in Seaford, I offered a class on storytelling ...
I hadn’t fully made it up ... somehow I thought it would just come to me ...
Not enough people signed up and so I never finished ... making it up ...
I’d almost forgotten it ... and then I read your words here ...

Ever since I read your words about Joe Di ... somewhere I have been thinking of Bone People. I’m not exactly sure why. I don’t have a copy of it. I must have borrowed it from a library. For some reason it keeps floating in the background ... aboriginal people ... knowing once more ... all ... I do not ... know ...

... storytelling ... words ...
... oral tradition ... telling ... remembering ...
... listening ... holding ...
... illustrating ...
... if I draw at all ... I draw ... as I talk ... using my hands ...
... hold my hands ... and all my words ... go away ...
... you might be glad to know that ... were we ever side by side ...
... smiling here ...

... somewhere in Ireland ...
... I heard of a woman ... the storyteller ...
... the last ... storyteller ...
... nothing had ever been written down ...
... you had to come ... and listen ...
... as she wove her tale ...
... I wonder if she illustrated ...
... by weaving pictures ... with her hands ...

... those are mine ...
... and ...
... these are yours ...

“It's a mysterious relationship, pictures to words, words to pictures. Thinking of the old man by the fire with children all around, under the stars, out in the desert ~ as he talks, he draws with his finger in the sand before him a series of concentric circles, one here, one there, one over there, & connects them with lines, makes dots around them, and then smoothes it all over with the side of his hand & commences another picture, another page, of the story he tells ...

... night after night he tells these stories, draws these patterns ; night after night the children sleep to the pictures & the patterns in the sand & the sky, in the stars above ... & so it has been, for however many thousands of years ... hey.”

I believe that as he speaks and as he draws ... and as he holds everyone so closely ... he illustrates another way ... he illustrates ... not only with his hands ... but also ... with his eyes ... eyes that speak his very soul ...

and in this way ... this man ... through the most precious of threads ... finds himself woven ... with another man ... one I have come ... to know ...

This “...mysterious relationship, pictures to words, words to pictures.”
I can’t tell you how I love this image that even I can see ...

... closeness ... greatest treasure ... storytelling ... telling of lives ... telling of dreams ... illustrating ... showing ... believing ... in the power ... of ... all that stories ... bring ...

I don’t know about a desert ... but I know of Shelly Beach ...
if I came ... would you go to the sand ... by the fire ... under the stars ...

and as you talk ... would you use your finger and draw in the sand ... page ... by page ... by page ... the story you hold inside ...

if I close my eyes ... and wish upon a star ... I can almost see ... and I begin ... to hear ...

storytelling ... the greatest treasure of all ...

even at 2.30 am ... I’m so glad you were able to smile ... when I woke you ...

thank you for helping me to think and
... in so many ways ... for helping me ... to see ...

thank you for ensuring that always there ... will be ... illustrations ... for those like ... me ...

"... & so it has been, for however many thousands of years ... hey.”

Both I think. I recently re-acquired books from my childhood having pined and yearned for the illustrations still stuck in my mind. Yet, some words dance with those images as well. Lovely tribute, amazing comments. I love reading you...again and yet again. Many thanks, R

Thank you, Muse, for reading and sharing in this special piece.
Sometimes I come back to read all the thoughts again ... to float again ... and dream again ... to listen ... and to see ...