Penheads enter a new decade

Is there anybody out there?! Calling all Penheads! It's Ellise here...

Things have been quiet on the Penheads front as we agreed on a break over the Christmas and New Year period, but it's February already so I thought I would do a quick post to let you all know that the Wheeler Centre for Books, Writing and Ideas officially opens this month. Their calendar is now available online and I see that some events are selling out. If you haven't already, you may wish to peruse the calendar on their website: http://wheelercentre.com/calendar

I managed to get a ticket to the 'In Conversation with Jennifer Byrne: Helen Garner' event on Tuesday 16th February. Tickets are now sold out but let me know if you managed to get one too and I will keep my eyes peeled on the night.

Given it's the start of a new year, I also thought I would ask if anyone has any suggestions for Penheads this year? We had a chat at our end-of-year dinner about making it less structured so that we can try to weave our own projects into the sessions and reduce the amount of time it takes to prepare. I'm hoping Peta, Martina and Chris will refresh my memory on this discussion as my recollection of December is getting hazy!

I saw that some of the writing groups on the VWC website take turns to email (or hand out) some of their writing and spend the session "workshopping" it. Is that of interest? Our usual meeting time of 6pm every second Wednesday still works for me but how does everyone else feel about it? I wouldn't be too keen on going weekly, but meeting less frequently wouldn't be too bad if it meant we could get a regular group together. Look forward to hearing your thoughts and then meeting up sometime soon.

Assembling Institutions

As a public literary institution, the Library is an effect of multiple cultural, social and political discourses that determine the way in which readers consume texts. Why can you borrow 14 books and not 16, who decides that Motorcycle Monthly is a more important acquisition than BMX Today, and why is Literary Fiction upstairs while Travel is on the ground floor? Libraries raise certain questions, the answers to which are embodied in the experiences of its patrons.

In the check-out queue, a woman in a red coat (made in China, feels like Paris) chooses to read the dandruff on the shoulders of the gentleman in front of her, instead of The Spare Room which she's borrowing for a reading group that will be deferred in preference for another night at The Builders Arms. The man with an itchy scalp (nothing works, not even tea tree) clutches an audio recording of Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall. His money is on Mawer though. Three people back, a woman who knows she's in the wrong place just to ask a question about DVD regions, half relishes the palpable impatience of the man behind her, who has a hunch one of this son's overdue books is still sitting under the Green Guide. In the magazine section, a woman sighs heavily while focusing a knotted brow on a man who's barely even reading the February edition of delicious with Nigella's recipe for potted shrimp that she will tear out 40 minutes later, concealed with a expert sneeze. Up in the literary fiction section, a woman texts a friend before heading down to the self-help rack. Is Doctor Phil even at the City Library?

This Wednesday 30th September we are empire-building. The plan is to meet at 6pm at the City Library. The writing exercise is to pick a section of the library which appeals and to write a sketch from our site-specific study. After an hour we will converge at Journal to share our writing, thus piecing together small snapshots of this important metropolitan institution.

Please RSVP Heads - here or by email.

Debrief Dialogue 23/07/09

“So how was Penheads?”
“Oh, it’s You.”
“How’d it go??!!”
“Yeah it was good…. What happened to you?”
“It was raining.”
“People have been known to write when it’s raining. We have our sessions indoors yknow.”
“Are you pissed off with me?”
“I’m not sure it’s that personal, frankly.”
“Did you know that when people say “frankly”, apparently they mean the opposite thing?”
“Okay. You win. It’s completely personal and the night was a dismal failure because you didn’t show up. Snort. What’s Freud’s point of view on believing that when someone says they’ll show up, that they’ll actually show up?”
“Huh? Did you guys do Point of View?”
“No we did twitter plot / character / dialogue.”
“Dialogue?! Why not just call it “conversation”?”
“”Conversation” is what you do in language class.”
“You could say that Penheads is a language class.”
“You could say that, but you’d sound like a wanker.”
“More of a wanker than saying “dialogue”?”
“Why ask me? You seem to have the conditions for wankerdom covered.”
“That was what is referred to as a rhetorical question, in common parlance.”
“Common parlance?! “Common parlance” is a great example of a word that’s not in common parlance.”
“Two words”.
“It’s like an anti-onomatopoeia”
“It has nothing to do with onomatopoeia: words that sound like what they describe. In fact you could say that all words which aren’t onomatopoeia are “anti-onomatopoeia.””
“In which case, it would be an anti-onomatopoeia, then. What is the word for a narrative which does what it describes?”
“I don’t know. Some type of performative? Google it. Hang on- I’ll text my brother.”
“How’s it going with your brother?”
“Up-and-down. He’s just so extremely self-righteous and judgmental.”
“Imagine that.”
“I know, it’s awful. He thinks he knows everything too. I mean, there’s no telling him anything. And he doesn’t listen to a word I say.”
“You poor thing.”
“It’s not me. It’s him. He’s the one you should feel sorry for.”
“Oh believe me, I do.”
“What characters did you use at Penheads?”
“Helen contributed a photo of a guy “sleeping out”. Possibly homeless. And someone forgot to print out Chris’s characters. So we improvised with the barman from CH2.”
“Oo the sour one? Unethical!”
“By the way, we’re thinking of scouting out a new HQ for Penheads. Whatcha say to that?”
“I agree that there are more ambient environments. The hospitality at CH2 can seem a little strained at times. Where are you thinking?”
“Not sure. It seems to come down to the noise factor. Any ideas?”
“Ah. Here you go. My brother’s got off his arse and bothered to respond to my text for once. “A narrative which falls prey 2 doing what it describes is a victim of the imitative fallacy. ie Writing a boring story about a boring woman.” Writers are meant to transcend the imitative fallacy. You can still write about a boring woman. But the writing is not supposed to be boring.”
“Boring writing huh?”
“So what’s the topic for next Penheads?”
“I think you’ll like it actually!”
“Autobiographical writing?”
“Lynda suggested it. And she volunteered to host. It’s sort of an improvement on the idea we had to work up a piece of writing over continuous sessions.”
“Oh. I liked that idea. What’s the so-called improvement?”
“Keep your eye on the blog for details.”
“Bah! That blog! No respectable person would be caught dead reading that blog.”

"Guess what?"

"Guess what?" He asked enthusiastically.
"What?" She responded somewhat cautiously.
"We're doing dialogue at Penheads next sess." He grinned waiting for her response.
"Hmmmm" She said, "Not my favourite topic but... Hey didn't we do dialogue a few sessions ago?"
"We did and that produced some great results so we thought we do it again only differently."
"Ok, how's it gonna work this time...?"
"Well it came out of discussion brought up by Ellise about twittering and how a book plot can be summarised in less than 200 words (or whatever magic number of words a twitter is limited to). We thought it'd be interesting to see what we'd all come up with, given the same basic plot (in twitter form)."
"Given the diverse writing styles of Penheads you mean?"
"Yeah - something like that."
"From memory, I think Martina said she'd bring along a twitter plot."
"So what's that got to do with dialogue?"
"Well someone suggested introducing a couple of characters that have found themselves immersed in aforementioned twitter plot. We thought it'd be interesting (that word again) if the characters had no relationship prior to their introduction, so Chris and Helen volunteered to bring along short descriptions of characters that have allegedly never met before."
"How long did you guys think about this one?"
"Not that long actually, it all seemed to flow quite naturally. And then it was Helen, I think, who came up with the idea of writing using dialogue."
"Nice one Helen!!!"
"And guess what again?"
"What now?"
"Given Martina, Chris and Helen are bringing our source material you don't need to bring a thing."
"Cool."
"Yeah I thought you'd be happy about that."
"Hey see you Wednesday night at Council House."
"Yep looking forward to it - let me know if you can't make it."

Gary

FYI: Authors of book on Melbourne Graffiti talk at Readings this Tuesday

Given last session's graffiti theme, I thought you might be interested to know there's a discussion at Readings bookstore in Calrton with the authors of a new book on Melbourne's graffiti history (called Kings Way: The Beginnings of Australian Graffiti).

Starts at 6:30, Tuesday July 21. Full details are here.

Hold Me Close

It’s dark. A car drives past illuminating brick walls and piles of rubbish. It’s raining, a slow, wet drizzle that swirls in the night air. My eyes adjust again to the blackness. From somewhere nearby the thud of music hits the back of my head. I imagine bodies dancing, laughing, drinking, warmth. I pull the greasy hood of my jacket tighter over my head to muffle the sound and reach into the jacket pocket for the stub of a cigarette. I find strands of dry tobacco balled with lint then my fingers find a butt caught in the ripped lining. The stench of lighter fuel as I light the stub. I found the lighter a couple of days ago and if I’m careful it’ll last a week or too. I pull hard on the cigarette, feeling the warmth as the smoke fills my lungs, holding on to it for as long as I can. Then I let it ease out through my nostrils. I hold the butt carefully in my palm so that it doesn’t get wet and to minimise the light it puts out. I haven’t seen or heard anything but I don’t know if anyone else is in this alley.

By the glow of the stub I study the gouge on the back of my right hand. It’s still raw, weeping. It throbs at night as I wait for the grey fuzz of dawn. I push my hand back into my pocket.

A cardboard box falls to the pavers about five meters away. I jump, my heart thuds. I pull back against the door, hug my knees up under my chin and wait. The butt burns the palm of my clenched fist. I drop it. Fuck. Blood is pounding in my head. I try to breathe as quietly as I can. I can smell burnt skin. More noises. A black shape pushes its way through the rubbish. A low growl. A dog, I can just make it out. I stand and raise my fist. It growls again then turns and works its way unhurriedly back up the alley. A truck rumbles slowly past the entrance of the alley lighting up words scrawled roughly across brick. Hold me close.

Writing in public

A rewrite of my response to the graffitti images thinking also of the Lascaux caves... martina.

Close to the ground
in arching scrawl
open-mouthed red and black
stainings
that read like a tattoo
worn old on skin

hunter
terror
sob
dance

the newest shine
unanswerable as small scars
and still hold the gesture,
a rapid impulse toward some kind of oblivion.

In darkness drawn,

sometimes
I get confused
but then
I forget

a voiceless subliminal rumble
rolls
from eye to belly
and loops from hand to mind,
telling me something…
having a say
a howl
a dig.
Putting it on the record
just how bored
and how neglected,
or maybe how clever
or furious
and dissembled.

⌠made in darkness
the marks of the hands
fill the animal’s body
and appear as if part of the stone itself

transported to stillness
his movement
and his breath condensed
the cold air imprinting rock
his blind hands trace crag and hollow
images appear and disappear
intermittently⌡

A here and an elsewhere,
a primitive perhaps
that seeps and bleeds the colour
of one into another -
over and above another.

You’re playing with my delirium

Never tented
or trellised or
staked like vines or fruit trees
the scrawny weed
is left to cling in the verge.

It seems to have no sense
no discipline
no ideal form to take,
yet it’s silhouette against
the bare wall
is beautiful
and speaks.

There’s wind in its fingers
like loose tendrils of hair
at the nape,
and the fine violet blooded stems
stand like a crown for sunset
and memory.

Quiet like a seam, gently
laying the air in the ground,
making ready earth

⌠outside
it was eye-piercing
daylight,
the kind of light
that didn’t allow conversation⌡