Not Browning, Waving

Background: Piet is giving a free lecture in Albury, taking Cindy for support, which allows Elyse (the daughter of an ex-girlfriend) to meet her mother's family. This forms the chapter 'Shock Value' from the book DLC31.

The Albury Museum-Library is brilliant. It won awards, & it deserved to. It’s a centrepiece of the town & the district, & a wonderful community space incorporating two vital functions - books & resources, & events & exhibitions. Every sizable town should have something similar - even if it is a rather big investment of time & budget. People flock. 

This is not a case of needing to drum up interest because nobody would think to go to the art gallery. This is more a case of people who want to hear me having to plan ahead to get seats because of the people who pass through every day taking a casual interest in ‘something happening’ while they’re already here.

It’s definitely a case of us not caring what time we arrive, because we can sticky-beak through the existing installations & just get a feel for this part of the state with these static displays. This is what was missing when we went to all those other museums last year - there’s a vibrancy in having ‘temporary’ exhibitions for six months. It’s fresh & obviously well-cared-for, with not a hint of dust or mildew. Well, given that the building itself is so new & light & airy, that doesn’t surprise me. It surprised Cindy.

When it comes to ‘local academics’, we have CSU just out of town to the North, & La Trobe just across the river to the south. Neither has an English department to speak of. They both have remote teaching of some sort, but it’s not like I can entice some Uni students to look interested. In this case, I’ve found a new friend to come up from Shepparton. It’s kind of like someone going from Sydney to Newcastle, I guess, so it’s a stretch, but it’s not that bad. It probably helps that it’s Friday. I didn’t need Libby to be here, but I thought it was a nice idea to have that support in front of a scattering of teachers from … at least half a dozen high schools, certainly no more than ten. I can imagine that she thinks it’s a great opportunity to make those connections, too. They have a strong teaching option at Shepparton. This town would be a bit of a battleground for attracting students along the border.

“Piet!”

She’s not moving very fast because she’s got heels that are leaving dents in the concrete as she stomps towards us. She’s dressed for standing still, I suspect. She’s angular. I don’t know how else to describe her: longish legs, tallish, wide hips (at least one child), squeezed into a flame-red knee-length skirt. She’s wearing a white shirt with a big collar & narrow sleeves, her shoulder-length dyed-black hair held back with a red hairband that also matches her lipstick. The nails are a different, more orange, red. The shoes are somewhere in between. Nice try.

“That would be Libby,” I muttered.

“Damn - I thought it was an ex.”

We lost Elyse in one of the exhibits. This is the sort of interplay she loves to listen to - & she still gets mildly shocked by it. Being comfortable with your partner means you can rib them about absolutely anything. Well, there are swathes of Cindy’s past I would never touch. OK, being comfortable is knowing where your boundaries are. Often, Cindy just melds into me such that we don’t have a boundary. I am her & she is me & we are all together.

I took Libby’s hand. I’m not going for the air-kiss, because I don’t know her at all. I haven’t even spoken to her - I’d had an email exchange along the lines of ‘is there anyone in Wodonga?’. A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed.

“Nice to meet you in person, Libby. This is my wife, Cindy.”

“She doesn’t let you loose to get up to mischief, huh?”

“She usually has to wait until I get home to find out about it,” I retorted.

Cindy nodded sadly in agreement.

It was enough to wipe the smile off Libby’s face.

“Isn’t this great?” she asked no-one in particular.

I’m sure it is. Actually, I seem to recall I’d been thinking that before she arrived. She’s not going to steal my ebullience. It’s mine!

I already have the head librarian to introduce me. I’ve told him that I hate being introduced, & he responded that he hated giving introductions, so we agreed that we could skip that bit. He’s a nice chap - a well-fed middle manager & public servant who knows he could die in this job because there’s nowhere else to go & this gig is pretty damn sweet. I can imagine he has a superb office.

I’ve warned Cindy about white folding chairs. She gave me a look somewhere between shock that I had such a negative opinion on anything & horror that I might be going senile. We’ll see who’s laughing when she sits on one. She hasn’t yet.

“A kiss for luck?”

“My sole purpose in life.”

We did find Elyse … or she found us. She’s now lounging against an exhibit. It’s probably OK. She’s scanning the crowd. Looking for family? She really could have spent the morning with them … although Fin’s probably working. There’s always Grandma.

A wave to the crowd, & I start straight in.

“Who here likes Robert Browning?”

In another audience, say Uni students, I might have said “Who here likes Browning?” … up until the day that some wag called out “Racist!”. Now, I’m far more specific.

“Thank you, Libby. Libby over there has come up from La Trobe Uni at Shepparton - she’s trying to steal students for her wonderful English course.”

Minor laugh. Not a blush. She’s been pointed out, so that might have been the point of her trip. The cheery wave helps. She’s crashed this sort of thing before, methinks.

“Personally, I prefer his wife - Elizabeth Barrett - but Browning himself was so lyrical & expressive that he could get away with quite a bit with his words. He could lull you into a false sense of security & then you realise afterwards that you’ve just witnessed a tragic scene, or someone has been satirised to the point of irreverence.

“Show of hands if you’ve read Porphyria’s Lover.”

Libby’s shot up. At the least, she’s demonstrating how to be an interactive audience, standing there in full view near the front in bright clothing. A few others followed. It was once required reading, but I’m not so sure now.

“Poetry shouldn’t be what you expect. Love poetry isn’t what you think. Is it a love poem? It’s certainly a beautiful poem. It inspired me, & I remember writing my own version once ...

Porphyria's long brunette strands

glide softly with the feel of silk

across the work-worn rough-hewn hands

that dance upon her skin of milk.

The moment of desire demands

a silence & a reverence

that, through a touch, a breath expands

'til time has lost its relevance.

We are emotion on those sands

washed with the tides' impermanence

to grace the shores of all love's lands

yet never gaining residence.

The dreamer wakes, eyes open wide

to greet true understanding's dawn;

'tis not her lover stretched beside,

but one long held in fear, from scorn,

& she is caught up in the tide

of sweet revenge as hair is torn

across the neck that was denied,

where true love's image once was worn.

& so to watch as beauty dies,

as struggles fail & life as well,

last look of fear, of hate, surprise,

it matters not, & none can tell.

She was a whore before my eyes,

now she has nothing left to sell,

no more the lips for telling lies,

no more a beating breast's faint swell.

No more the milk or silky strands,

no more to touch, no more to dream;

all by the twisting of these hands

that caught her short but final scream.

Let that sink in. It won’t, but I’ll let it. Libby’s shot a hand to her mouth. That’s a genuine gasp. She’d been caught in the flow, & what’s being said kind of builds in your subconscious until something else screams in your head that you really shouldn’t be enjoying this.

“Poetry tells a story, just like prose. It doesn’t have to be a nice story. It doesn’t have to give you all the details. It can leave a lot more to your imagination. Stories told visually - TV, movies, even comic books - need less imagination. If they are complete in themselves, then the story is nothing more than what has been shown. There might be deleted scenes or off-camera action, but it has to fit in with what you’ve already been shown.

“Poetry, or a book, can hold references to things that you should know - culturally, logically - for you to lay on your own interpretation. Who killed Porphyria in Browning’s poem?”

“Her lover.”

Simple. I didn’t see where that came from.

“In mine?”

It took a while.

“Some guy who wishes he had been? A stalker.”

Schoolgirl. The swot. She was listening. Grab that one, Libby. My gift to you.

“Is it obvious? Did I say that?”

A bit of head shaking.

“The story - the real story, is in here,” head tap. “If the story is out there,” waving towards the street,” then it’s playing out under someone else’s control, & that makes it less interesting. The story that you own is the story that you write in your head, based on little bits you’ve seen or heard - what the author reveals.

“When you read poetry, you’re filling in the gaps to make a complete story. When you read a book, you add the visuals (at least) to imagine just how freckled a face is, what shade of brown their hair is, etc. An author can’t be bothered giving you that much detail unless it’s germaine to the story they’re trying to tell. The story that you read is much richer than that, because you’re a clever person. You’re not some kid to sit in front of the TV to be entertained, you’re a mature reader with your own imagination.

“As an author, the trick is to trigger the imagination. I could use various words or phrases that will evoke a response from some members of the audience & not others - such as expressing love in terms of a man & a woman. That’s why we have lesbian poetry, for example - it looks at the world different from tradition, to appeal to a distinct audience. I don’t read lesbian poetry. Well, I might read it, but I don’t ‘get’ it. It doesn’t resonate with me. It’s not meant to. There might be some great phrasings & rhythm in there, but I’m missing something in my experience that is probably assumed - & I don’t even know that. Having never been a lesbian, I’m missing out on … something. I don’t know. 

“Having never strangled a lover - & my wife will attest that I don’t seem to have that tendency - love you, Cindy!” with a wave in her direction. 

I’ll pay for that later.

“Having never killed anyone, do I miss something in Browning’s poem? Had he literally strangled a mistress? No. In this case, the concept of strangling, the concept of loving someone so much that you would stop anyone else from ever loving her, is not foreign to ‘us’. Oh dear. When I say ‘us’, I guess I mean men. I haven’t been a woman at all, it seems.”

Laughter.

“I can imagine strangling someone - preferably not my wife. I can imagine being so jealously in love that I might. But there are distinct limits, because I can’t imagine being a woman. There’s always a limit to my imaginative capability. As a writer, you have to be aware that you’re being ‘too male’ or ‘too female’ to be understood by half your potential audience. It was all well & good for Browning, because women, in general, would have found his work too confronting. He was writing more so for educated men. Elizabeth Barrett was writing for sensitive upper class women. They both knew their audience.

“A writer today has to choose an audience, & be true to that, or else be so bland in their appeal that they risk losing colour & flavour & texture & all the good stuff that makes you go back for more. They turn into the textual equivalent of teletubbies: ‘e-oh!’ What does that even mean? My kids are now too old to tell me. They’re not in that audience. Here’s one for a specific audience.”

There is nothing more bright than the laugh of a child,

& nothing as light as the smile in her eyes,

whether joke or at play, all constrained, running wild,

let her burst through a room and so share the surprise.

Any child is an Angel, a blessing on earth

with her wings ever fragile, her eyes far away,

& her heart always lifted in wonder and mirth.

Some would say it's their innocence - all that they know

is an adult's protection and love in this place;

but I know they are Angels in truth, 'though they grow

soon beyond wings of heaven the more world they face.

I would treasure each moment preceding their fall,

And the rest silent mourn, 'though I'll still love them all.

“One for the parents.”

Small round of applause.

“I feel as though you’ve been the right audience for me. I hope that you have been. Thank you.”

I walked straight over to my wife. I am not a rock star, but I remember that I used to do this when I walked off stage after playing. I kissed her. She expected it. I don’t care who’s watching or how long it takes.

“Guys! Come on!” from Elyse.

Who elected you timekeeper? Fine. I know, I have other fans.

There’s the usual press of people who want to shake my hand, take my picture, get my autograph or get me to sign their book (which I hope isn’t a borrowed one from the library). Libby is trying to filter them by which uniform they wear - schoolkid, housewife, tourist, unemployed.

There’s also a local newspaper reporter, but he’s likely to just say ‘hi’, not interview me here. I’ll probably do a formal shot with some councillor who has turned up at the end of the talk. I wonder why this didn’t happen in Wagga? Not well organised, I guess, or not enough notice, or Jane didn’t think of it, or the art gallery is not the place for the mayor to be seen because he got a kickback during planning. I don’t know.

Here he is.

“Harry Bowden, Border Mail. You know how to … stir up an audience’s imagination, I have to say.”

“Nice to meet you, Harry. What do you need from me?”

“We’ll take a few candids as you sign stuff, then one of you & … shit, I haven’t found the mayor. He’ll be here.”

“Good to know, Harry. No rush. This could take a while. If my people didn’t organise it, though, I won’t have his number.”

“Yeah, the lazy bastard could be anywhere. Local politicians, eh? Do your stuff, Dr Malone.”

“Call me Piet.”

Table & chair. I guess it can’t be helped. People want me to sign stuff. White foldable … evil. No, not sitting. I’m happy to stand & lean on the table if I have to … which is a white foldable table, by the way, but I don’t think they’re related. There’s something about the white-foldable-ness of chairs that makes them the spawn of Satan.

Standing makes it easier to get people who just want photos in & out. Elyse has to work out every new kind of phone under the sun - & a few relics. Someone has a camera. I don’t mean an SLR, I mean something a little newer than a box brownie, but not much.

Here’s the Mayor. He’s the well-dressed cousin of the Head Librarian, with exactly the same attitude to life. He’s at the peak of his importance & it’s downhill from here - after the next election. Rural politics. I’ll guarantee he’s an accountant or something & has passed the running of his business to a partner or his son. That’s patriarchal. Actually, no, that’s probably right. He would never pass his business to a daughter. Non-event. One photo. Sorry, two. He blinked. Of course.

A few more people want various things signed, including some obvious staff who are wearing their indoor clothes (no coats) & not carrying anything except a notebook or a copy of my poetry.

Cindy’s off to the side. She doesn’t come with me for book signings, usually, so I guess this kind of thing, which is even less formal, would be a bit of an eye-opener. I’m a rock-star for rather slow-moving fossils. Yes, there are quite a few of the pensioner variety. No pictures. They just want to say ‘hi’. Most of these get a peck on the cheek. Strangely, the old men tend to refuse.

Libby’s trying to be useful & still collaring teachers & any student with a serious look & glasses. She has pamphlets. I hadn’t seen her bag before, & it’s jammed full of stuff. She’s also found an assistant, so I guess someone from the campus south of the border has nipped across with the marketing. Sneaky. This is CSU territory, in theory.

The head librarian made another appearance & just waved in my general direction. That’s our understanding. Time’s up. Remove this disturbance & let the next circus start. That would be the only way to run a place like this - always something happening, so don’t hog the spotlight. Quite possibly, he just wants his staff to stop lollygagging & get back to … well, I suspect there are as many different jobs here as there are staff. There’s no such thing as a ‘librarian’ these days. They’d be specialists, &, just like the public service, completely incapable of doing anything outside of their training.

Rachel & Samantha appeared. I’d seen Rachel in the audience, but Samantha had blended into the crowd like another school teacher, I guess. Her dyed blonde hair makes her look older than she is, at a distance. Elyse must have already met them before the talk, by the way she’s not rushing to them. Maybe that’s why she was missing. We get hugs, now that the crowd has died down.

“Fin tried to tell me you were selling cookbooks. Silly girl. Poetry, eh? Well!”

“Did you enjoy the talk?”

“I think I did. No idea what you said, but it sounded good.”

I strongly suspect that my poetry & fiction has no place in that household. Wrong audience.

“I should buy your book … books?”

Samantha blushed. Yeah, it doesn’t help if you don’t know how many I’ve written. It also doesn’t help that neither of those poems comes from a published book. I should tell Jane about that. She loves a little shock every so often to prove that she’s necessary in keeping me under control.

“We’ll get you some. Nobody this close to family buys my books. You’re Elyse’s family, which makes you near enough to mine.”

Am I overselling? Have I just dumped unwanted literature on poor unsuspecting new friends? I’ll never know, & I care less. We’ll call it a gesture, & it’s in the right spirit, because I’m not going to test them later, like asking for an opinion. How gauche!