So, I conjure the dead. Tomorrow I will do the same. Following the spectres around, the shapes in the early morning mist, making the letters into form.
I am writing. Each day. And in the writing is the learning how to structure. Of learning what goes where, how that goes there and why. And cutting and polishing and hoping that the underneath is strong enough to hold up the sorrow. This is very sad writing; relentlessly sad. I want to take out this structure of me that is behind the wall of tears, beyond what this time and space meant. And learning that writing dialogue is so difficult, trying to get the inflection, the words, the nuances of what the dead said.
Day after day of twirling the words and the memories, seeing the images that the feelings, swimming around in my head, summoning up the spirits of the dead from my will. The haunting of all of these ghosts, holding their hands above the water, saying Notice me, remember me. Seeing screen doors, a corner shop and the image of an incidental man who I have not seen in twenty years, the feeling of papyrus jacaranda pods under my feet, their seeds about to fly away, suddenly appear like quicksilver in the air. Those memories, those memories buried under the layers; under the molten sea, under the places where I never wanted to go again. Call this an exorcism; all of the words jumping around like agitated half wishes.
One of my metaphors thrilled me: His tensile silence was like walking on the oyster shells at the beach, too much depth with him and you would cut yourself. I felt the combination of words inside; they felt full and complete. They felt like the sea, when it is just the right colour; the green and deep blue meeting and making pale silk glass.
This is the troublesome first attempt at a book, the memoir, the cliché , singing and screaming, shrill, a dowager crone, hairs on her chin, begging to be let out and into the charcoal and stormy air so to purify what is left. These words need to be let out to see what is behind them. Who knows what is behind these words? Perhaps there will be other worlds inside, a velvet curtain covering a forest of Eucalypt trees, the light touching them and casting them into soft shadows.
I want to shout I've written over 11,000 words in a continous, almost pattern. And I can find the pieces and how they fit in. Some of it is drivel and will need editing, or go the ether; the place where the words go when they are not to be used, hiding their sadness and their lack of usefulness under the plaid brims of their hat. My capacity for overwriting knows no boundaries and my sentences stretch on like a desert road into the nowhere, but the words are written.
And tomorrow, another ghost.